


The Vanishing Voyeur Job

by mackiedockie



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series, Leverage
Genre: Caper Fic, Community: hlh_shortcuts, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:07:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackiedockie/pseuds/mackiedockie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is St. Patrick's Day, and Duncan, Methos and Amanda plan to drop in on the celebration at Joe's.  On a different mission altogether, Nate Ford walks into the very same bar.  When Joe and his mysterious new patron evaporate into the night, two volatile posses form up in pursuit--and run right into each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Who are these guys?”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fractured_sun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractured_sun/gifts).



> The timeline is an atemporal mashup between HL post season 6 and Leverage up to season 4, with references to ‘The Experimental Job’. Pick your favorite year and go for it. The HL movie timeline has no meaning here at all. And Joe’s Bar is Immortal.
> 
> Originally posted December 2011 to the hlh_shortcuts gift exchange. Many thanks adabsolutely, dswdiane and dragonfly for invaluable beta input--all errors are mine.

****Prologue****

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” Joe delivered the famous last call words from the stage as he snapped off the spotlights. “It’s motel thirty.” Joe turned to check the soundboard, and froze, rooted to his own darkened stage, as one of his patrons was kidnapped before his eyes. 

The man was a stranger, with a sharp tongue, and a sharper thirst, a professional drinker out on amateur night. Their conversation had made the time pass as St. Patrick’s Day wound down without any sign of Methos. Now the same man was being removed at gunpoint from a stool at Joe’s own bar and marched out the back. 

It was a slick job; not even the bartender noticed the two men with concealed weapons and the frozen look of acceptance on the victim’s face. Joe noticed. He knew that feeling. He knew where that march usually ended up. But he couldn’t interfere in a roomful of partying patrons, on the tail end of St. Patrick’s Day of all nights.

Joe’s hand hovered over his phone, then retreated as he put all his effort into getting through the thinning bar crowd as soon as possible. He grabbed the jacket with the hideout gun and his car keys and headed out the service entrance, only a minute behind the abductors. He could call for help on the way, either Methos or the police, depending on how the situation panned out. 

Joe had serious personal issues with kidnapping. He’d been the victim twice. No, three humiliating times--it was not the kind of Irish luck he aspired to, nor wished on others, even a stranger. And he was not going to stand by while someone from under his own roof, who had accepted his drink and hospitality, was forcibly taken away.

Joe checked the slide on his gun and shouldered the back door open. Almost immediately he realized his mistake. The ramp light was out, and the door stopped short of its usual wide swing. Before he could fully clear the entryway, the heavy emergency door was shoved back at him with too much force and speed for him to avoid. It clipped his hip and left prosthetic, and sent him headlong into the metal pipe railing, where he half-clocked himself above the ear.

He grabbed the rail, determined not to go down, and his gun went skittering down the ramp. Dragging his feet back to vertical, he was still seeing stars when he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t struggle. You’ll only get hurt,” his assailant said in a cultured and reasonable voice that reeked of east coast ivy.

Joe was not feeling at all reasonable. “Define ‘hurt’,” he asked, and without waiting for an answer he pivoted on the rail and sent an elbow backward, taking a small triumph in the sound of the dull crunch of a flattening nose. This time, Joe wasn’t going down without a fight.

**1**

“Coals to Newcastle, Amanda?” Methos glimpsed her in the rear-view mirror waving a bottle-sized gift box with a green bow. He shared a smile with MacLeod in the passenger seat of his rental SUV. Methos had picked the two of them up at the Seacouver airport to surprise Joe on St. Patrick’s Day. Amanda claimed the back seat to unpack her gift and quick-change out of her travel clothing to ready for the reunion. “I’m fairly sure Joe has a bottle or two laid in for Lá Fhéile Pádraig.”

“Not aged this well,” Amanda declared with confidence.

“Or with quite the checkered history?” MacLeod inquired dubiously. “Redbreast or Green Spot?”

Amanda sniffed. “Would I bother for an overpriced bottle from a soulless multinational distillery?”

“Yes, but not for Joe,” Methos observed impartially.

“Good point,” MacLeod agreed. “The Wild Geese Irish Soldiers and Heroes?” he guessed again, giving Methos a sidelong look.

“Only if you want Joe to keel over in mortification,” Methos snorted in mock disgust. “Writer’s Tears,” he countered. “At least it comes from a pot still.”

“Blended. Speaking of mortification,” it was MacLeod’s turn to scoff. “Am I then at least right in assuming it isn’t a little something available from the Dublin duty-free?”

“As if,” Amanda said. “If I wish to evade taxes, I do it the old fashioned way.”

“Smuggling never truly goes out of fashion,” MacLeod agreed cautiously. It was an old Scots tradition, after all.

“Passing mere contraband off on a high holy day would be tacky, MacLeod,” Methos perversely took Amanda’s side. “I’m sure she went to great lengths to steal a perfectly rare Irish water of life just for Joe.”

“Thank you, Methos. That’s very kind of you to say,” Amanda purred. “I met a monk from Tintagel who had no proper appreciation for...”

“...Wait...wait...I know that limerick...” MacLeod interrupted, earning himself a token thwack. “Does it end with ‘bent dangle?’”

“Careful, MacLeod, or we’ll find out,” Methos cautioned.

“And this would be a problem for you because...?” MacLeod waggled his eyebrows outrageously. Amanda’s laughter from the back seat would have made Methos blush, if he hadn’t gotten over such foibles long before limericks were invented. Methos noted with a quick glance in the rearview mirror that at least one bright green garter was accessorizing her basic black stretch cat suit. “Fetching. But aren’t those your work clothes?”

“Joe once said he liked the styling. I thought he’d like the chance to examine the stitching up close,” Amanda said, a wicked gleam in her eye belying her innocent tone. “Do you think Joe will be happy to see me?”

“Joe is always happy to see you,” Methos observed. “He has a stunted sense of self-preservation.” 

“All too true,” MacLeod agreed wryly, managing to mostly duck another reprising thwack from the back seat. Privately, Methos was pleased to see both in a teasing and angst-free mood. That would be a greater gift to Joe than all the pure pot still single malts left in Ireland. But Amanda had piqued his curiosity. Aged, rare, native Irish -- “You didn’t happen to find a little something from Nun’s Island?”

“Not the Persse’s Galway. I bought the last known intact bottle years ago,” MacLeod protested. “And I’ve never been a monk anywhere near Wales,” he added without the tiniest touch of suspicion. “Besides,” he added definitively, “Connor and I finished it. Every drop.”

Amanda gave Methos a measured look. “You heard Duncan. It couldn’t possibly be Persse’s Galway. Besides, it’s no fun to steal something from Duncan that he’d give away for free, if the situation warranted,” Amanda pointed out with cool disdain.

Overwhelmed by Amanda’s unique version of flawless logic, Methos could only nod and vow to himself to revisit his own private cellar in Andorra and count the bottles. Had he ever lived in Tintagel? That year going AWOL from Tacitus didn’t count. Did it? Monks had barely been invented.

It was just past midnight when Methos arrived at Joe’s Bar. The rain-washed parking lot gleamed under the halogen streetlights, less than half full and emptying fast as patrons headed home or uptown for one more round at the late-night clubs. Methos paused and settled his sword as he stepped out of his SUV, scanning the darker corners of the lot and the dim entrance to the alley. The rain had let up, but a low fog smoked along the cooling pavement.

MacLeod followed his gaze, and frowned. “Joe should have replaced that light over the loading dock.”

“He did. Maybe there was a surge. The electrics in that old building can’t handle the heavy duty stage amps.” Methos said, focusing on the dark profile of Joe’s Jeep, parked in it’s normal spot by the ramp. Nothing looked out of place. “I’ll check it tonight, while you’re regaling Joe with your latest adventures with Amanda.”

“You don’t want to hear about the Lost Lolo Treasure?” MacLeod sounded slightly wounded.

“My imagination runs wild. Let me guess. Found?” Methos countered dryly. “Film at eleven?”

“Maybe Joe can make popcorn, and we’ll make it a foursome,” Amanda speculated brightly as she linked their arms and marched them to the bar. MacLeod stumbled only a little bit at the concept, though he recovered bravely.

“I suspect it will take more than a mythical bottle from Nun’s Island to convince Joe to participate, but I’ll be happy to observe and record,” Methos offered helpfully.

“But never interfere!” Amanda agreed brightly. “It’s a date!”

MacLeod quickly ushered Amanda through the shamrock-bestrewn door before the plan devolved further, while Methos lingered to make one last scan of the parking lot. The cars were thinning, except for three people gathered at a dark van, apparently sharing a cell phone. “Twitter--the new opiate of the masses. What would Marx make of that?” Then, realizing that talking to himself in the present tense about a Victorian economic philosopher was probably a sign of old age, Methos jumped to catch the door before it closed. 

The airport run had put Methos behind the holiday clock--he was clearly running on a serious beer deficit. No doubt there was a Celtic curse somewhere called down on those who approached midnight on St. Patrick’s Day with excess sobriety. If not, he would have to make one up. That should pry Joe loose from behind the bar and let them get down to some serious celebrating, before the beer brownies created mischief.

Except when Methos stepped inside to properly survey the bar, MacLeod and Amanda were cornering the backup bartender, and Joe Dawson was nowhere to be seen. The first words he heard out of the bartender’s mouth were, “You mean Joe’s not with you?”

Mischief made.

**2**

“ ‘Joe’s?’ What kind of name for an Irish bar is ‘Joe’s?’” Eliot bounced on his toes, and peered hopefully into the foggy shadows around the bar. 

“Looking for somebody to beat up?” Parker helpfully peered behind the van. “A lurker or five?” Her face fell when no candidates materialized.

Disappointed in his search for miscreants, Eliot focused on the bar. “And that sign is pink.” 

“Hot jazzy pink,” Hardison declaimed. “That doesn’t count. It’s a blues bar. It gets 4 stars on the Underground Rhythmroad music scene app.”

“Nate wouldn’t be caught dead in a ferny bar with a pink sign on St. Patrick’s Day,” Eliot objected.

“Neither would the owner, Joe Dawson, according to his file,” Hardison held up his phone. “See? No ferns, but his Irish roots are as green as Nate’s. Except...whoa...” Hardison frowned as the screen flashed and the file evaporated. “Weird. Interpol files aren’t supposed to do that. Not unless I turn my Godzilla megaworm program loose to eat them. But it disappeared.”

“Just like Nate.” There was a furry, frustrated growl underlying Eliot’s words.

“We’ve checked every other bar with a name that contained a Mc’ or an O’ or a shamrock,” Parker tilted her head. “Maybe pink is Nate’s lucky color tonight.”

“We’ll have to rebook a new flight out of Seacouver if we don’t find Nate here.” Hardison observed, unexcited about the dull prospect of cracking airline security twice in one day.

“Or we leave him here to pickle,” Eliot growled. The Seacouver job had been a grind for them all, slow to develop, the sting blunted when one of the marks had evaded their net. A tip or a slip? Sophie had gone home and Nate had gone off grid before they could pinpoint which.

“Hey, I’m getting a weak signal,” Hardison brightened. “Inside. His transmitter must be on it’s last erg.”

“He probably drowned it in a glass of Jameson,” Eliot muttered.

“Then he would have swallowed it by now,” Parker pointed out neatly.

“Eeuw,” Hardison shuddered. “That’s not coming out of my tech budget.”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed as a dark, nondescript rental pulled into the parking lot, bucking the general outward flow of the crowd. “Is that a sword he’s putting into his...”

“...pocket?” Hardison finished helpfully. “Or is he just glad to see us? Come on, man, it’s probably an umbrella. We’re in the land of rain and coffee.” He glared at the overcast sky which promptly spit in his eye. “Swords are so Monty Python. Unless they’re ninjas. Are there ninjas in Seacouver?”

“Ninjas are always closer than you think,” Eliot warned darkly. “Look. There’s another blade.” Then he jumped and whirled, as he was thumped from behind. “Parker? Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Look!” Parker exclaimed. “Did you see? It was her! Wow, how did she get that to fit _there?_ Can I get her autograph?” Eliot hadn’t seen this kind of gleam in her eye since she had discovered designer chocolate.

“Who?” He rolled his eyes as she thumped him again, and turned to scan the newcomers more closely.

“Amanda!” Parker punctuated her excitement with one more smack between the shoulderblades.

Eliot very slowly and deliberately turned and placed his hands on her shoulders, aiming her at Hardison. “Amanda who?” he asked, hoping her unbridled enthusiasm would encourage Hardison to translate.

“Amanda who?” Hardison repeated blankly.

“ _The_ Amanda,” Parker declared definitively.

Hardison started to shrug, then recovered at Eliot’s murderous look. “Known associates of blues bar owners with jazzy hot pink signs, check.” He tapped his phone as they gathered around. “Oh.” He tapped again. “Uh oh.” He expanded the screen and held it up for Eliot. “ _That_ Amanda.”

“She’s a myth,” Eliot protested.

“She’s a legend,” Parker corrected.

“She’s as toxic as a dioxin sandwich on the search engines,” Hardison whistled, as he hastily redoubled the security on his phone. “Her Interpol file tripped more red flags than ours put together. And now --” he gave the phone a wounded look at it’s apparent betrayal, “-- Amanda’s file just evaporated, too. It even tried to pingback my ID. Sneaky. I will now pingback their pingback...and...nada.” Nettled, Hardison tapped a few more keys, then shrugged. “Weird.”

“Who are these guys?” Eliot wondered. “Hardison, you’d better stay with the van and crack those files. We want to know who we’re dealing with, here, Nate or no Nate. Parker, you’re with me.” He sighed as Parker started to bounce on her toes with glee. “And no autographs!”

**3**

MacLeod leaned over the bar, working up a good glower. “Where’s Joe?”

Methos gave the backup bartender credit, he made a good faith effort to protect his boss’s privacy, considering the opposition. But his resistance couldn’t last. He was a civilian to the Game, and didn’t have a Watcher vow backing him up. Joe swore off employing Watchers after Mike snitched on him during the Galati debacle. Joe had joked and called the policy a bonus life insurance benefit. Methos hadn’t laughed.

“We just wanted to give him a surprise,” MacLeod toned down the glower and turned on the accent and the charm when he realized Joe’s employee was leaning more toward instinctive protection of his boss than evasiveness. “He hasn’t had a lot of time for himself. The economy and all,” MacLeod played on the bartender’s sympathies.

Methos leaned back against the bar and enjoyed the performance. Bob already knew him as Adam, so his wholly undeserved reputation as a beer cadger wouldn’t speed results. It wasn’t worth the effort, not when MacLeod could soften Bob up and Amanda could bring in the heavy artillery.

“Bob...it’s Bob, right?” Amanda interjected, as MacLeod paused to reload his charm. Her voice was husky with innocent intimacy and concern. Almost innocent. “We just wanted to give Joe a very special present. Since we missed his birthday,” she added sadly.

Outgunned, Bob the bartender caved utterly. “Look, all that I know is after the last set, Joe was helping with the drink orders and cleanup, and he started talking with this guy at the end of the bar. He was sitting at your spot,” the bartender said, giving Methos a look that hinted his absence had somehow gotten Joe to consort with dubious strangers.

“Hey, Joe’s a big boy. He can talk to anyone he wants,” Methos protested. “Even people who steal my bar stool.”

“Yeah, but this guy was even more demanding than you are. See? His glass is still there. Guy wanted me to save it, even put that old coaster over it. God knows where it’s been.”

“Me? Demanding?” Methos asked, wounded by MacLeod’s clear laugh. “It’s called quality assurance. Mock me at your peril, Highlander.”

“I live for peril. Danger is my business,” MacLeod happily mocked, and sent him the hooded gaze that Joe had once described as toe-curling, even for him, and late one liquid and raucous night had stringently banned in his presence.

Amanda poked Metho in the side, startling him out of his zen state of appreciation. “Your toes curled, too?”

“Check.” 

While MacLeod continued to question the bartender, he and Amanda moved down the bar and examined the leavings. A glass half filled with amber liquid. A coaster with the logo _McRory’s _, in Boston. Some writing scrawled around the border, a few numbers and a word.__

“An address, maybe?” Amanda speculated, frowning. “206 Dust...Lane? Penmanship is a lost art these days.”

“Or he was rushed,” Methos observed. He stared into the amber depths of the glass. “Is that an onion? Who puts bar fruit in a 12 year old Jamesons?” he asked, sniffing the contents suspiciously.

“Not me!” Bob the bartender exclaimed, offended. “I’m a professional!”

“Please tell us exactly what happened?” MacLeod asked with a restrained patience that belied the growing tension Methos saw tightening his shoulders.

“Joe and this guy were going at it, back and forth, talking quiet, but intense, you know? I got the feeling Joe was a little leery of him, and he was putting back a few, the guy, not Joe, but Joe waved off the bouncer. Joe’s a good listener, you know?”

“We know,” MacLeod said quietly.

“Sometimes too good,” Methos added sotto voce. He felt Amanda squeeze his arm in agreement.

“While Joe was checking the stage after the band broke down, two guys came in with a business look, you know?” Bob the bartender continued, with a tone that implied that the business look was bad for business. “They didn’t want any drinks.”

“Always a sign of deviance and miscreance,” Methos chipped in.

“The drunk -- er -- patron,” Bob the bartender corrected himself, “Well, he waved and said hi to the two newcomers. He had that kind of fake smile that said he knew them, but didn’t really like them, you know? Said if anyone asked for him, he thought this wouldn’t take long. They left out the back.”

Methos surveyed his favorite bar seat again, and the floor underneath. There was nothing more interesting than a bar napkin and a peanut shell. He picked up the drink and and showed the offending fruit to Amanda. “That’s no cocktail onion.”

“I’ve seen a 5G earbud prototype like this. Very advanced. Very expensive,” Amanda said, then added with a whisper, “Can I have it when we’re done?”

“We’ll share,” Methos offered with a conspiring look.

“You still haven’t told us what happened to Joe,” MacLeod reminded the bartender, catching him trying to eavesdrop.

“Joe grabbed his coat and left. As he blew by the bar he said he’d be back as soon as he could, that someone needed a hand. That’s why I thought he was with you. He’s always haring off after getting phone calls, then showing up late with one of you.” The bartender reached down and started polishing a glass, giving Methos a defiant look.

“Your deductions are best kept between us,” Methos said in his mildest tone, returning his gaze without blinking.

“Yeah, right, no problem,” the bartender quickly agreed, nearly dropping the glass. “I like to stay out of Joe’s business, but it’s a little hard not to notice after a while. Joe looked like he meant business too. It’s a shame, really. Joe never even got around to enjoying his shift beer tonight, of all nights.”

“We need to find out who Joe was talking to,” MacLeod said, eyeing the leftover Jamesons bucket. 

Methos shook his head. “Fingerprints? It will take too long.”

“Hey, what kind of bartender do you think I am? I wouldn’t let him skip without paying his tab.” Bob tossed a platinum card on the bar. “Nathan Ford.”

The three Immortals shared a blank look, MacLeod finally voicing for all three, “Never heard of him.”

Methos was already moving to check out the loading dock, while Amanda checked the office. She poked her head out after he passed the door, saying “He took a gun. And both safes seem intact. I’ll start a trace on Nathan Ford on Joe’s laptop.”

“Joe gave you his password?” Methos asked, amazed.

“Of course not,” Amanda returned, scandalized. “Joe would never do that. It took me ages to crack it. Joe’s sneaky.”

“Good for Joe. You realize I’m telling.”

Amanda nodded, no trace of amusement in her eyes. “If we find him tonight, I’ll tell him myself,” she promised. 

Methos left Amanda to her considerable devices, hitting the rear safety door and peering out into the gloom of the alley. Experimentally, he flipped the switch for the loading dock floodlight. 

Actinic light washed over the ramp as MacLeod came up on his shoulder. “The light wasn’t broken. It was switched off, deliberately. Joe’s car is still here. That’s not good.”

“And his gun is there.” Methos pointed to the base of the ramp. “And there’s a blood smear here on the rail.”

“Not good at all...” MacLeod knelt and studied the gritty alley surface, pocketing the gun after making sure no one was watching. “There are scuffs on the ramp, then drag marks. More blood,” he said sharply. He pointed left and followed until the marks disappeared. “A car or van, maybe? Not truck tires, but a wide wheel base.”

“Amount of blood?” Methos asked, coldly assessing the amount he’d found on the ramp. “I’ve got splashes, but no pools.”

“Some scattered drops, some smeared, in the dirt on both sides of the vehicle. Joe fought. He fought hard enough they overlooked the gun. But he’s alive.” MacLeod sounded confident. But then, MacLeod still had a tendency to coast on faith when evidence was lacking. He and Joe were oddly alike, that way.

Methos let the silence stretch, then nodded. “No cane. They wouldn’t take the cane and leave the gun if he were dead.”

“There’s that, then, too,” MacLeod took the theory as confirmation.

“There’s that,” Methos allowed. Even he preferred not to dwell on the alternative. He walked the perimeter one more time, looking carefully under the car and even into the dumpster. “No cell phone?”

If it were a quick draw, Methos and MacLeod would have drawn even, but Methos had Joe higher on his call list, under ‘BeerBFF.’ “It’s ringing...gone to voicemail.” Methos counted in Tibetan to rechannel his mounting anger until the beep sounded. “Hey, Joe, we’re missing you at the bar, give us a call, we’ll raise a hubbub!” he announced happily. “Slainte’ mha!”

“Hubbub?” Amanda asked skeptically from the door above.

Methos nodded as he completed his search of the alley. “From the old Irish war cry, abo’. Joe and I got in a fine argument about the ancient Dawson family war cry. He had inherited that modern monstrosity Toujours Prepice from the late Normans. I took the side of Daws abo’. We created quite a hubbub until five in the morning.”

“That’s our Joe, always propitious,” Amanda said, clearly dwelling on a memory she was not about to share with her companions.

“If Joe hears the message, he’ll know we’re on the warpath,” MacLeod’s teeth gleamed in a not-quite-smile. “Daws abo’! Up the Irish.”

“Up the Irish,” Methos seconded softly, catching MacLeod’s eye. Carefully, he lay his open hand on MacLeod’s tension drawn shoulder. “Mac. There’s something that Joe made me promise if a situation like this ever came up again.”

“You mean a situation like O’Rourke? You don’t have to tiptoe,” MacLeod said tightly, but he didn’t shrug Methos away.

“You know that can’t happen again. Ever.” Methos could feel MacLeod’s pulse racing under his hand. 

MacLeod held himself stiffly silent for many heartbeats. “Then we’ll just have to get him back before it comes to that.” MacLeod began to pull away, then paused. “What did Joe make you promise?”

“That if he ever had the colossal stupidity to get abducted again, and you ever had the spectacularly moronic urge to give yourself up to save him, that I would shoot you both.” Methos patted his jacket pocket. “Which reminds me, I need more bullets.”

“Just how many do you think it would take?” MacLeod’s smile ghosted back.

“A clip each?” Methos guessed wildly. “Just to be on the safe side.”

“Safety first,” MacLeod agreed with enough irony to convince Methos that his learning curve was indeed rising.

“Not that I’d really shoot Joe, mind you,” Methos confided. “I fibbed to him about that. I’d just kill you twice. For the practice.”

“I’ll raid Joe’s arsenal,” Amanda chipped in cheerfully. “And I’ll pass you the ammunition if you need more.”

MacLeod blew her a kiss. “Fickle wench.”

“Deal.” Methos traded glances with Amanda. MacLeod had made no promises, but he was listening. “Now if we can only keep Joe from going off half-cocked...”

“Half-cocked is just not Joe’s style,” Amanda averred.

“And you would know this because?” MacLeod fished.

“A lady never tells,” Amanda said firmly. Then she glanced over her shoulder. “We have company, boys.”

**4**

“Did you know there are at least 7 known Amandas since 1920?” Parker came perilously close to burbling. “And a half-gypsy diamond cutter I know said she knows of at least one more that has a base in Toronto. There are portraits of Amanda that go back to the days of the three musketeers!”

“ _The Three Musketeers_ are fiction. You know, like in a book?” Eliot objected. “As is this mythical superthief of yours. No one person could steal the Stone of Scone _and_ Louis the Sun King’s cock ring. Right off their mounts. As it were.”

“Amanda could,” Parker claimed stoutly. “They each secretly train a new Amanda to take over when they retire. That’s why there’s an unbroken line of Amandas that stretches back to...back to practically Columbus! Back to Shakespeare! She even stole a copy of Romeo and Juliet from the Queen’s censors! Don’t tell me he’s mythical too!”

Eliot wondered if he could get vision insurance for all the eyerolling Parker put him through. “As a matter of fact, there are rumors...”

“Rumors! Hah!” Parker scoffed. “All you have is rumors. I have Amanda!” She pointed dramatically at the slightly down-at-heels entrance to the bar. Parker practically danced up to the entrance, until Eliot dug in his heels and hauled her back with a firm “Shhh!”

“Shhh?”

“Shhh.”

“But...”

“Sh.” Eliot waited until he had her full attention. “We are looking for Nate,” he said with carefully spaced words.

“Well...okay. Yeah.” Parker deflated for all of two seconds before reigniting. “Do you think maybe Amanda stole him?”

Eliot gave up, and gave in. “Why not? That explanation is as good as anything else we’ve come up with so far.”

“Well, okay, we’ll steal him back. Do you think that would look good on a job application?”

Eliot pulled up short. “What kind of job?”

“To become the next Amanda. Somebody has to do it, right?”

Eliot squeezed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, and, averting his eyes from the glaring (hot, jazzy) pink sign, pushed open the door. Compared to wrangling Parker, tackling a couple of guys carrying swords would be a piece of cake.

To his dismay, the bar was nearly empty, with a nervous looking bartender chivvying the last of the patrons and staff out the door. “Sorry, it’s last call!”

Eliot summoned up his friendly Samaritan smile. “We’re just here to pick up a friend,” he said. “We got a call he needed a ride. We’re his designated drivers.”

“Oh. Well. Take your pick,” the bartender said with a relieved grin, waving at the last of the crowd moving to the door.

Eliot checked the dance floor, the bathrooms, the tables. Then he checked under the tables. “No Nate,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

“No Nate,” Parker imitated in a gruff voice. “Anymore.” She pointed to the bar where a lone drink still stood unclaimed. “And no Amanda, either,” she added, “Unless the owner is hiding them in the back.”

Eliot hesitated. They were operating without a plan. Nate might be a royal pain in the ass to work with at times, but he was always a man with a plan.

“Why don’t I recon the back while you scare something up?” Parker asked helpfully, indicating the unsuspecting bartender.

Eliot smiled. It was nice to be on the same page again. “That’s a plan.”

**5**

Bob the bartender came blasting down the hallway between MacLeod and Methos, his keys jangling and coat trailing, pulling out his cell phone. “That’s it. I’m calling the cops. That guy back there is way out of line. ‘Dust’ this and ‘206’ that, and designated driver, my ass. He’s worse than you lot after a thunderstorm.”

“You’ve never called the police on us,” MacLeod temporized. 

Bob, however, had apparently developed an immunity to his unnatural charms. “That’s because Joe never let me. The old softie.”

“I’ve heard Joe called a lot of things, but ‘old softie’ really doesn’t fit the bill,” Amanda murmured. Methos had to agree, though he suspected for radically different reasons.

“We don’t have time to waste playing friendly bouncer, MacLeod,” Methos loosened the hilt of his poniard. Firearms generally got the attention of even belligerent drunks, but Joe didn’t like gunfire in the bar. It attracted too much attention, and was hard on the ears. “Shall we show him the door and lock up?”

“Who is he, and what did he say he wanted, exactly?” MacLeod asked, unconsciously resettling his balance for a fight.

“Him! Short, dark and surly,” Bob said, pointing back down to the hallway entry, not quite filled by a less-than-tall silhouette of a man with a fighter’s stance. “He wants to see Joe, and he won’t take no for an answer.”

Methos dropped his hand from the poniard--the man appeared to be unarmed. “MacLeod? Shall we initiate a discussion? He was one of the three standing around that van out in front. Perhaps Joe is closer to home than we think.”

“It sounds too simple, but maybe we can at least talk him into volunteering the keys to the van.” MacLeod looked over at Amanda, managing to nonverbally communicate the request to get Bob safely out of their way.

Methos permanently filed away the memory of the masterful manipulations of MacLeod’s left brow. 

“It’s too simple,” Amanda warned in an undertone as she waved Bob away toward the back. “It isn’t dim sum. They wouldn’t take Joe out the back and then come in the front looking for more from Column B.”

“The execution is certainly not up to your standards,” Methos agreed. He’d seen a lot of chicanery over the years. But criminal masterminds were rarer than honest thieves, in his experience. All too often, crime was exactly that simple. 

Catching up with Bob, Amanda reached out and closed his phone before he could hit the 911 speed dial. “MacLeod and Adam will take care of your problem,” she said. “The boys here will 86 the annoyance and close up the bar while we’re waiting for Joe to return. Why don’t you go home, leave the cleanup to Adam?”

“Don’t you mean ‘us’?” Methos complained, faithful to Adam’s character. “But Amanda’s right. Your shift ended at midnight. You know I’ve locked up before. And Joe might run late.”

“There’s the receipts,” Bob stalled, though clearly tempted.

“Let’s go into the office and we’ll put them safely away together,” Amanda suggested. Deftly lifting the bar bag from his coat to make it a done deal, she shooed Methos and MacLeod off down the hall.

“Come on, MacLeod, this shouldn’t take long,” Methos said recklessly. Not so recklessly that he did not notice their target had remained patiently at the entryway, where he had a slight tactical advantage.

MacLeod had also taken a slow and studied measure of the man waiting motionlessly for them. “Have you ever heard the old saying about...”

“...Yes. If it was an old saying, I’ve heard it,” Methos shot back. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” MacLeod answered, a warrior’s unholy glee lighting his eyes, chasing away the shadows.

Dabbling in recklessness didn’t mean engaging in foolishness. “By all means,” Methos offered with an indulgent smile, bowing toward the waiting opponent, “After you. Watch out for a left hook. I think he favors that side.”

**6**

Hidden in the old building’s aging ductwork, Parker sighed as she watched in silent admiration. With effortless elán, Amanda conned the apparently sober and responsible bartender into leaving the bar take and abandoning his post. Deploying a professional and practised blend of flattery, humor and sheer force of personality, Amanda convinced the bartender that there was no place like home on the holidays. And she did it in under two minutes.

Parker held her breath, watching from a tiny slit in the duct, beside herself with jealousy and excitement.

Amanda had hesitated at the door to Joe’s office after she had secured the bar receipts in the safe and sent the bartender home, searching the cubicle for something out of place. Clearly she sensed that something was off, despite the care Parker had used in hiding her tracks.

There was a thump, and a splintery crash from the bar out front. Parker’s heart sped up, but Amanda didn’t even turn her head. Instead, she focused precisely upon Parker’s hiding place, and calmly inquired, “How are the new dust filters working? Joe replaced them last fall after I complained about my dry cleaning bill.”

Parker popped the loose duct joint and skinned out of the pipe, narrowly inspecting her outfit. “Very clean,” she reported. “Is he always this nice to us?”

“It depends on what you mean by ‘us’,” Amanda said, eyeing the lithe blonde critically. 

“Amandas, of course. And Amandas in training?” she added hopefully.

“I was unaware I was recruiting this week,” Amanda tapped her chin speculatively. “Drop off your references, and we’ll talk. Say, in a year or two.”

“Where?”

“Wherever I am. If you can’t find me, you aren’t ready.”

“That’s fair,” Parker agreed. “What gave me away?” 

“You left the safe dial on ‘zero.’ That’s not Joe’s preferred number.”

“Sixty-nine is his favorite number?” Parker asked blankly.

“Sh. Some secrets gentlemen never tell, and ladies share carefully. There are certain things it’s best the boys don’t know we know.”

“Know what?” Parker’s forehead wrinkled in concentration, trying to decode the statement according to their shared thieves code, rather missing the social point entirely.

“Oh, dear. I may need to assign you some remedial tutoring.” Amanda said with a quick look over her shoulder. A massive crash from the next room made her nod in satisfaction, and she turned back to Parker. “Now. To business. Where’s Joe?”

“Search me,” Parker offered, holding her hands open, empty. “Where’s Nate?”

“No idea. Who’s Nate?” Amanda countered.

“My team leader,” Parker answered honestly, if incompletely, out of professional respect. “Who’s Joe?”

Amanda considered the question seriously, also out of professional respect, but the answer was even more opaque, and peculiarly weighted with meaning Parker couldn’t decode. “In this bar, Joe is our honoured host. Anything beyond that, you’ll have to ask him.” Her turn. “Where is 206 Dust Lane?”

Parker’s hand shot to her ear. “206. Dust. Dust Lane or Dustmen?”

Amanda tipped her head with dawning understanding. “It might have been Dustmen. The cursive was abysmal. But the 206 are an exaggerated government conspiracy hoax. Like the Skull and Bones. Or the Watchers,” Amanda tested.

Parker’s face lit up. “The Watchers? I’ve heard they’re even richer than the Templars. And they’re loaded!”

“And what else do Watchers do, Parker?” Amanda asked patiently.

“They Watch? Oh, I see what you mean. They’re spies, then. For hire? Like the Dustmen sometimes hire out from the government? They have a reputation for fancy tats and cheap benefits. The Dustmen are more platinum parachutish and gold cufflinky.” Parker froze. “How do you know my name?”

“Who else could you be?” Amanda asked rhetorically. “Lovely work on the Damiano job, by the way. Though you need to remember the lichen growth rate next time.”

Parker nodded, filing the advice away for the future. “Factor in the rainfall variations. Right. Oh! That’s how you fooled Interpol in Venice and substituted the Rafael.”

Amanda beamed, clearly pleased. “Forget waiting for a year. Your reputation precedes you. Call me. Anytime. We’ll talk when being tethered to an earbud loses its charm, and you finish your apprenticeship with this...Nate.”

Parker’s thrill at being accepted lost inflation when Amanda’s words brought home the possibility of leaving the team. “I can’t do both?”

“Friends are vital,” Amanda said with sudden gravity. “But divided loyalties can destroy the strongest of us. I won’t force you to chose.”

Amanda clearly had more on her mind, as she toyed with an old football that inexplicably took up room on the overcrowded shelves behind the desk. “Your boss, Nate. Our friend, Joe. What do they have in common? Why take them both? Joe has tried to steer clear of government radar for decades.”

“How do you know the Dustmen have them?”

“Your friend Nate told us. He wrote it down on a bar coaster.”

Parker smacked her hand to the earbud. “Did you hear that? Eliot? You can stop fighting any time. Hardison? It’s getting all Dusty around here.” Silence. Long silence. “Eliot?” Longer silence. “Hardison?” There was no answer.

**7**

Methos gave MacLeod plenty of space to initiate diplomatic relations with the man waiting for them at the end of the hall. Still, he had to jump lively when MacLeod came tumbling back down the hall after extending his credentials. “Need a hand?” Methos needled.

MacLeod grinned and wiped a bead of blood away from his lip. He accepted Methos’ hand up and pulled him close. “Maybe I’ll need another hand later,” he whispered into Methos’ ear, just before nipping his earlobe. “You should have mentioned his right cross.”

“Ow! Ingrate. You should have seen it coming. A man my age should get more respect. What if I forgot to tell you to duck?”

“You never forget anything,” MacLeod observed shrewdly. “And you know I’ll always respect you in the morning.”

“You know I’m going to hold you to that,” Methos promised as he pushed MacLeod back down the hall. “Duck!”

A chairleg went whizzing over MacLeod’s head, and he cheerfully dove back into the fray, tackling his opponent on the dance floor. Methos saw something small and oblong skitter across the boards after the impact. Curious, he skirted the melee, and located in the bar duff near the stage a twin implant to the one swimming in the whiskey bucket at the bar.

“Curioser and curiouser.” Methos wiped the earbud on his pants leg and gingerly inserted it in his ear. Immediately, he could clearly hear Amanda’s voice speaking with a younger, and apparently more volatile, if that was possible, version of herself. Pursing his lips to keep from revealing his eavesdrop on the line, Methos scanned the room for the third man.

A rhythmic thumping interrupted his concentration. Somehow MacLeod had insinuated himself into a headlock at the bar, where his assailant was using the polished bartop as a tympani. Methos grabbed MacLeod’s partner in vandalism by the collar and scruff of the neck and whirled him off into the snarl of tables and chairs in the center of the room. “Keep the mayhem away from the bar, MacLeod. Joe could use some new furniture, but the beer taps are sacred ground. Remember St. Paddy’s ire.”

“He’s got a lot of determination for that small stature,” MacLeod squared up as blue sparks danced over his forehead.

“That’s the nicest description of ‘berserker’ I’ve ever heard,” Methos complimented. “Now, go get him, tiger,” Methos encouraged. “Try not to inflict anything permanent, until we know who is behind the curtain.”

“Inflict on me or on him?” MacLeod asked.

“Dealer’s choice,” Methos said cheerily, as he sidestepped a small oncoming train that continued by to ram MacLeod in the midsection and pin him against the bar. “Not the bar!” Methos reminded sternly, bouncing them both off in the direction of a tippy table that Methos particularly disliked. It collapsed underneath their weight with a satisfying crash.

Methos straightened and tuned out the fight to follow a phrase in Amanda’s conversation. “Dustman. Dustmen.” Not Dust Lane at all. “Merda.” He went back to the bar, where the drink still waited, miraculously undisturbed in the assault on the bar. “206. Dustmen.” The wording was now clear under the smudging on the coaster. “Mac?”

“What? I’m a little busy here,” MacLeod squeaked out from the wrong side of a chokehold.

“Go easy on him. I think he may be on our side.”

**8**

Sitting in the driver’s seat of the van, Hardison smacked the side of his laptop, then petted it lightly, in apology. Eliot’s earbud had gone out again. “This is why Eliot can’t have nice things,” he muttered to himself. He’d also lost Parker’s feed when she moved into the owner’s office--apparently it was well shielded from listening devices. Suspicious, that.

There was a tangle of wires going to ancillary drives and boosters jumbled in his travel satchel, and a power cord that kept tangling with the gearshift. “I miss you, Lucille,” he said nostalgically. Travel wasn’t the same without her, and the rental van had no soul. Nor a virtual server or a satlink. He missed his fine-tuned search tools. Even Nate’s phone had been erased from his crude jury-rigged net.

“Next time I’m going to put the implant somewhere nearer and dearer to your heart, Nate,” Hardison threatened. “Or other dangly bits that don’t hang off your sleeve.”

“Ouch. That sounds painful. Have you experimented on yourself?” a strange and spooky voice said clearly in Hardison’s earbud.

“What? No! Who is this?” Hardison attacked his keyboard, but he was too close to the earbud transmissions to get distinct tracking feeds.

“You can call me Adam. Or Pale_Rider3000BP. That’s my online avatar. It amuses me.”

“Very funny. I’m Y0ur_W0rst_Nightmar3, online. Just wait until I get ahold of your root.” Hardison sent a chasing tracer down the line, but all he came up with was his own net. He was getting a very, very bad feeling about this.

“Speaking of painful, I like my root right where it is, thank you. Time for you to open up and come out of your shell, Mr. Hardison.”

Three slow, clinking taps on Hardison’s van window chilled him to the bone. The strange and spooky voice materialized as a grey shadow in the rainwashed gloom, holding a very shiny and very sharp knife. “That’s a big ass knife,” Hardison observed from the illusory safety of the van.

“Thank you for noticing, yes. It’s a poniard, actually. The hilt weighs a half a pound, and will shatter this window into very tiny pieces before you can start the engine and drive away.” The words reverberated eerily through both the bud and the glass. Two more taps. “Unlock the doors, Mr. Hardison. We need to talk.”

Hardison eyed the keys, then the big ass knife. At that moment, his phone jingled with the theme to _Strangers in the Night._ “Excuse me, I have to get this,” Hardison held up his hand.

“Seriously?” Adam asked.

Hardison stared at the cell -- the ringtone was for unlisted callers. A local number. “Hello?” he said tentatively, smiling brightly at his erstwhile guest with the long knife waiting out in the cold and damp. “Nate? It’s good to hear from you,” he said pleasantly, holding the mood for a second too long, before cracking. “Where the hell have you been?” he roared. Even the man with the poniard stepped back from the blast of indignation.

“No. No. NO. I won’t calm down. You vanish, and then Eliot and Parker disappear into the last rundown dump of an Irish bar in Seacouver...it’s like _From Dusk ‘Til Dawn_ with shamrocks. I have a guy who calls himself Pale Rider tapping on my window with a broadsword, and you want me to calm down?”

“If you wanted a broadsword, you should have said so,” Adam obliged. The poniard disappeared, and the long, grey, unforgiving length of a hand and a half blade took it’s place.

Hardison sat as still as petrified wood, the phone glued to his ear, his eyes glued to the sword. Then slowly, and very carefully, he rolled down the window, inch by inch. Just as slowly, he unstuck the phone, and extended it out to the end of his reach.

“It’s for you.”

Adam plucked the phone away with his left hand. Hardison blinked, and the sword disappeared. “This is Adam. Nathan Ford, I presume? May I ask what you’re doing with Joe’s phone?” As he spoke, Adam smoothly stepped back, redrawing his poniard and used the tip of the blade to pop the lock on the van’s sliding door.

“Let me just take this time to point out,” Hardison said over his shoulder, “That any aforementioned comments I may have made about ninjas should be construed as wholly positive and judgement-free.”

“I perceive you lead a very active fantasy life.” Adam stepped in out of the persistent drizzle, and shut the door with a quick snap of the wrist, just hard enough to make a firm point about Hardison’s lapse of hospitality. Still, he held the phone to the ear with the bud, so Hardison could hear the exchange with Nate. 

Suddenly the noise rate doubled. Parker was back online, in the middle of what sounded like the mother of all bar fights. Judging from her comments, she was cheering somebody on. Hardison hoped it was Eliot.

“Talk to us, Mr. Ford,” Adam-the-probable-ninja asked cordially.

“I pickpocketed Joe’s phone when we were being driven away from the bar. They took mine,” Hardison heard Nate admit. Freely admit. To a stranger. Or a strange ninja. Strange days.

“Was Joe unconscious or dead?” Adam asked, exploring logical outcomes in a tone so neutral and devoid of emotion Hardison held his breath.

“He was out cold. Cut on the head, smell of chloroform, six of one. I think he’s come around now, but I can’t get to him.”

“Maybe Joe will find a way to get to you.”

“They’re holding him on some sort of balcony. Tell Hardison, I’m sending some photos. Nice phone, by the way. Business writeoff? There’s an investment logo on the side. International Asset Corporation.”

Hardison got busy tracing Nate’s keywords. Tapping the cell transmission, he texted Nate the corporation particulars. “Dawson is listed in the corporate tree in tiny print, as ‘sales representative.’” Their bar owner was moonlighting.

“Joe likes to keep busy,” Adam said noncommittally. “You left a clue. In the bar. Care to elaborate about the Dustmen?”

“Dustmen? Never heard of them,” Nate said quickly. “Must be a bad connection. There’s no such cabal of intelligence gathering power brokers with extra-legal powers.”

“It sounds highly unlikely, when you put it like that,” Adam said dryly. “I’ll forego writing my congressman, then.”

“Looks like we’re all on the same page, yes,” Nate confirmed.

“Aw, not the Men In Armani again,” Hardison groaned, feeling about ten pages back. “I swear, they keep this up, their fraternity 206 files are going to look like Godzilla flame broiled them for lunch and had indigestion.” He turned back to his keyboard and shared the phone download, bringing up the photos one by one on his laptop. 

Then he attacked points of intersection between International Asset and Section 206. There wasn’t much to go on. The asset corporation seemed to acquire everything from server farms to funeral parlors. But it didn’t even have a rating on Motley Fool. Speaking of international cabals.

“What do the-Dustpeople-who-shall-not-be-named want?” Adam asked. Hardison could feel his cold eyes watching his every keystroke.

“From me? Hardison’s Godzilla, of course.” Nate sounded unperturbed by the threat.

Hardison bounced in his seat. “Nope. No. Not going to happen. It’s on a dead man switch. We disappear, Godzilla walks the earth, and every file the 206 section ever touched gets flamed.”

Adam studied Hardison with a new respect, and a certain feral greed. “Later, we’ll talk code. Your place, or mine?”

Hardison was about to place a firm boundary on making dates with tall, dark strangers-with-swords, when there was another tap on the car window. This time, four shadows loomed out of the darkness. “What now? Musketeers?”

“Hi, Hardison,” Parker beamed. Miss us?”

**9**

The fight was over. Finally. 

“Ow,” Eliot allowed, as he rolled off the unconscious body of his fiendishly resilient opponent, fighting to catch his breath. “Who are you, and what kind of vitamins do you take?” he asked the body. Rhetorically.

“Flintstones. I bought them for him for his birthday,” answered a cheerful voice from the back hallway. Parker stood next to the speaker, beside herself with glee, and waved. 

So this...was Parker’s Amanda. She was far more disturbingly attractive up close than from across the parking lot. “Is Duncan dead?” she asked, totally derailing his ambitious train of thought.

“What? Dead? No,” Eliot came to his feet, wobbling only a little, and reset for battle. “I don’t think so,” he emended.

“Eliot, this is Amanda,” Parker said in happy introduction.

“The myth?” he asked skeptically.

“The Legendary!” she corrected. “Amanda, this is Eliot. His legend needs work.”

“I think she means ‘it’s a work in progress,’” Eliot amended, nettled.

“Aren’t we all?” Amanda agreed. “Oh, by the way, speaking of legends, if Duncan isn’t dead, I’d suggest moving a few feet to the left. Duncan is notoriously competitive. He hates to lose. Even when the match is just to blow off steam.”

“Steam?” Eliot objected with a healthy dose of moral outrage. “I do not fight to vent steam.” He ignored Parker’s blatant giggle.

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Amanda,” Eliot looked down at his vanquished opponent. Bright brown eyes twinkled back. A kick sweep caught him at the ankles, and he had to tumble and roll to avoid being locked in another grapple.

The fight was on. Again.

“Oh, by the way, Nate called,” Parker sang out over the sound of shattering chair legs, her hand cupped to her ear to listen. “Are you getting this, Eliot?”

Eliot backed up out of reach, and dug a finger in his ear. “No. Lost it.”

“Nathan Ford called on Joe’s phone,” Amanda added in a lower, but more urgent tone, addressing Eliot’s opponent. “He’s alive, MacLeod. A CIA faction has them both. I think they need our help.”

Eliot ‘s opponent shed his playful mood like a skin. He seemed to grow and harden into a more wary and battleworn warrior, without moving a step. “Game over?” he asked, keeping the disappointment out of his voice.

“New game begun. It seems we may share the same enemy.”

“Parley?” Eliot offered, still on his guard.

“Truce. On my word.”

“Done.” Eliot held out his hand. It was gripped warmly and firmly. “Eliot Spencer.”

“Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

“You’re kidding, right?”


	2. “More drastic measures are warranted.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nate knows most people have skeletons in their closets. His new acquaintance Joe seems to have an ossuary.

**10**

Hardison rolled down the window, checking for more big ass knives. “What is this, Parker? Where did you get the entourage?” On her right, a beautiful woman whose body screamed “catburglar” leaned well into Parker’s personal space, blatantly listening in to the team’s earbud feed. 

On her left, a disheveled Eliot slapped the solid shoulder of a cover model for a historical romance. They were grinning at each other like fools. Hardison diagnosed post-combat hebephrenia.

“Just what MacLeod needs, another enabler,” Adam growled from the back seat. Hardison met his eyes in the rear view mirror, and they shook their heads in sad recognition of the pathology.

Adam slid open the door, and motioned everyone in. Through some complicated micro wrestling match, the tall cover model won the shotgun seat. In apparent revenge, Eliot introduced him grandly as ‘Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.’ Hardison performed an instinctive google and texted the result to Nathan.

“Don’t believe everything you read on the net,” Adam whispered in his ear, quashing the feed with a stab of his index finger.

Eliot jumped in next to Adam, while Parker and her new fixation Amanda took the rear. Hardison averted his eyes as they started fondling the climbing harnesses. It was too disturbing by half.

“You found Nate,” Parker proudly announced. “I told you Hardison could find anyone.”

“Nate found Nate,” Nate said sourly, grumpy about being behind the curve. “Except Nate has no idea where he is.” Hardison switched him over to the speakerphone as more pictures slowly downloaded.

“A warehouse?” Eliot guessed, trying to narrow it down as a concrete wall flashed by. Warehouses were always a good bet for kidnappings.

“Near the docks?” Parker chipped in, playing the odds.

“Try a luxury condominium apartment. On the west side,” Nate said. “Though Parker gets a bonus point. I could see water from the balcony.”

The pictures materialized. A generic van, no plates. A generic underground garage. A generic elevator. And a generic condominium apartment.

“You call that luxury?” Amanda sniffed. “It’s so...eighties.”

“It looks familiar,” MacLeod frowned.

“They all look familiar,” Methos disparaged. “Cookie cutter condos. I’d rather live in a mud hut.”

“Really?” MacLeod doubted.

“Well, okay, a mud hut with really good plumbing and central heating.”

“I think they call them ‘estancias’,” Amanda whispered for all to hear.

“The kidnappers act like they own the place,” Nate said, reclaiming the center of attention. “The apartment looks like it hasn’t been used in years. It was just abandoned. Pictures on the wall, futon couch, VCR player, breadmaker. Undisturbed. It’s like a time machine.”

“A view of the water. That adds value,” Eliot said practically, as he cracked a coldpack from the first aid kit to put on his swelling cheek.

“If it’s supposed to be a luxury condo, why does it sound like a disco rave in the background?” Adam complained, frowning as he strained to hear over the comments.

They all quieted for a moment. “Staying Alive?” Eliot said finally, appalled. At least the worst he’d had to deal with was Ozzy Osbourne. The BeeGees were cruel and unusual. “Nate, tell me they aren’t starting that PTSD interrogation experiment up again. Not on you.”

“Not on me,” Nate said tiredly. “They’re working on the guy who tried to rescue me. They’re experimenting on Joe.”

There was a very long silence. Hardison studied their new cohorts. All three were clearly very angry. But none of them were surprised. Apparently Joe was just a bartender like Nate was just an insurance claims adjuster. Versatile.

“What kind of experiments?” Duncan MacLeod glanced at Eliot, clearly sensing his reluctance. “I want an honest answer.” Hardison edged over in his seat, away from the vibrating anger in MacLeod’s voice.

“Highly uncomfortable levels of sound, exposure to cold, sleep deprivation--all designed to heighten stress trauma symptoms,” Eliot said unhappily. “Surprise attacks, as well. The experimenters were using homeless vets to sharpen interrogation techniques. Most hard core field agents are already a step or three down the PTSD Highway, so there is some correlation. But your guy is his own man. A bar owner. A businessman. Right? Stable. Well adjusted.”

“Drugged. With a head injury,” Amanda objected, with a blazing ferocity of her own. “Not to mention that Joe’s a...”

“Amanda.” MacLeod spoke her name very softly, but the tone was gravely uncompromising. “We don’t discuss Joe’s business with strangers.”

Amanda’s mouth snapped shut.

“Interrogation is out of the question,” Adam stated. He stared out into the black rain, still touching his ear, wholly focused on the background noises coming from the cell phone lifeline. “Keep working, Mr. Hardison.” Hardison felt the temperature in the van drop thirty degrees at the words.

“Hardison will complete the trace eventually,” Eliot quickly assured. “He always does. We’ll map the terrain, make a plan, and we’ll get them both out of there,” Eliot maintained, clearly attempting to moderate the rising emotions in the claustrophobic space. “Retrievals. It’s what I do. It’s what we do.” 

Taken by surprise by Eliot’s compliment, Hardison put his head down and began tweaking his search parameters. It was professional. It was what they did. He’d show those ninjas how a pro rolled.

“Tell us,” MacLeod asked with polite command, “What did you retrieve that brought the CIA to your doorstep?”

“Hardison joined their fraternity, Nate conned the Dustman responsible into confessing, and we brought the vets home,” Eliot summed up, leaving his part out entirely.

MacLeod nodded, and Amanda shrugged. 

“And now there they are, back to their old tricks,” Adam said darkly, with a sidelong glance at MacLeod. “More drastic measures are warranted.”

“Why would the Dustmen want to give an old Marine PTSD? Isn’t it, like, already mandatory?” Parker piped up from the back of the van.

Eliot straightened. Military muscle memory, Hardison decided. Clearly, something in Parker’s words had him remapping his priorities. “How do you know he’s a former Marine?”

“You don’t think even Amanda would make me forget the job, do you?” she said derisively. “Basic recon. Desk, safe, gun stash, trash, other safe, secret panel behind the safe. Nice touch, that last one. Almost missed it.”

Hardison noticed that Amanda nodded, but their other two neo-allies did not. Apparently the secret panel was still secret from someone. Until Parker, anyway.

“That’s enough, for now, I think,” Amanda said softly to Parker.

“That’s not enough,” Nate contradicted over the speaker. “Parker. I need more. We’re flying blind here, and I need to know who I’m working with to write the script.”

Parker froze, just her eyes moving from face to face, last to Amanda, and finally settling on the phone. Amanda contained her disappointment in a soft sigh.

“VA benefits cut, so no Washington connections, purple heart, marksman medal, tax audit, prosthesis repair bill--man, those are expensive!--ripped up invitation to a Vietnam Veterans reunion, 2 new wills in 4 years...how am I doing, Nate?” Parker asked.

“I’d say you’re dead on target, Parker,” Nate said proudly over the speakerphone. “I have a good picture of him now. Right in front of me. Handsome lad, in uniform. What happened to him?”

MacLeod, keeping his anger tightly wrapped until this point, finally answered, “He stepped on a mine. We need to get to him. Now.”

“I’m still working on the phone trace,” Hardison said, tapping the keys just a little harder. “It keeps bouncing around the downtown towers. It’s like the cell itself doesn’t want to be traced.”

“It doesn’t,” Adam-the-near-ninja interjected with a mysterious and significant look. “It doesn’t like to be watched.”

“Oooh, I get it,” Parker said, just as mysteriously and significantly, but she was halted from explaining when Amanda gave her a stern look and gently touched a finger to her lips.

Amazingly, Parker nodded, playfully zipping her lip.

“Hey, whose side are you on, Parker?” Hardison asked, feeling just a bit betrayed. It was one thing for Joe’s friends to band together to protect his secrets, but Parker?

“It isn’t germane to the matter at hand,” Adam said, cutting the argument short. “Nate. Are you still there?”

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me,” Nate complained.

“When you said you could see Joe’s picture, were you being metaphorical?”

“I’m always metaphorical,” Nate boasted. “But in this case, I was being literal, too. Too skinny for the vintage uniform, hat a half size too big, no beard, probably barely shaving. What was he, seventeen?”

MacLeod bolted upright, and reaching over to snatch and molest Hardison’s laptop, scrolled back down through the pictures and enlarging one, the cookie cutter living room. “I know where Joe is. I’ve seen that photo. On the wall next to the softball trophy, and his niece’s brand new graduation yearbook.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense, MacLeod,” Nate needled. “I want to pay my respects to the master of the house.”

“In hell,” MacLeod snapped, keeping his temper barely in check. “He’s been dead for years. The Towers, downtown, the highrise condos. The ones that were closed for remodeling. We want 1206. 12 floors up. It was owned by Joe’s brother in law. James Horton.”

Hardison was entering the new data as they spoke. “Yes. Triangulates perfectly, now that we know the height and exposure. It’s now owned by...”

“...The International Asset Corporation? There’s a manager of the year plaque right here on the wall,” Nate guessed. “I’ll send you a picture. Love this phone, by the way.”

“Wrong!” Hardison grinned, happy to trump Nate on a detail. Any detail. “The apartment is owned by Lynn Horton, daughter. Absentee. History professor in...Anchorage. To each her own, I say. But the surrounding units are owned by a fraternal organization we all know and love. The Dustmen.”

“Horton’s floor is owned by the Dustmen?” MacLeod asked, puzzled.

“Oh, no, no,” Hardison corrected, swinging the screen around to show them all. “They own the entire building.”

“Concrete plugs at the entry points,” Eliot pointed out. “Those vents could be gunports.”

“Security cameras and motion detectors, garden, garage, service port,” Parker pointed out. “Facial recognition, I bet.”

“Just one elevator,” MacLeod frowned. “Not up to the new building codes.”

“It isn’t a condo,” Hardison confirmed. “It’s a fortress.”

**11**

Nate swallowed. The bad music was giving him a headache on top of his proto-hangover. He was dry as dust, and nary a drop to drink. He’d even settle for water, at this point. It had been a long night partying before the Dustmen had invited him to this after hours shindig. 

On top of that, his ankle smarted where the zip tie that tethered him to the chair pinched his skin. The ‘Priscilla, Queen of the Desert’ soundtrack would be ruined for him, after this job. At least he could be sure they weren’t being overheard. No bug could work through this cacophony.

“Can you see Joe?” one of Nate’s peculiar guest team members asked over the phone, jarring him out of his self-pity fest. The bartender who tried to play hero was hurting a lot worse than he was--hatless and coatless, he had to be soaked to the skin in the late winter storm.

Nate rubbed his forehead, “Still raining. Still dark. Still can’t see him. MacLeod, right? I’ll tell you when that changes.” Hardison had made introductions, but Nate was still sorting them by the sounds of their voices over the phone.

Despite his short words to MacLeod, Nate craned his neck, trying to get a better view out onto the darkened balcony behind him. Speaker wires lead from an old turntable on the bookcase out onto the deck. Rain streaked the sliding glass door, but there was a hint of movement. Nate shivered on behalf of the unfortunate bartender. “There’s signs of life,” he assured his distant audience, even as he winced at a stinging high falsetto that made the clear glass vibrate. The thumping bass line almost covered the sound of the foyer door unlocking.

“Hst. They’re back. Turn off the speaker, Hardison,” Nate snapped one last picture of the deck where Joe had been left to marinate, then slid the open phone under the thin pad on the futon couch beside him--Hardison might still pick up a few words.

Their captors had temporarily left to clean up bloody noses and consult with superiors. Joe’s aggressive intervention back in the alley had caught them flatfooted, and they were improvising. Nate had the bad, bad feeling that he was originally destined to be occupying the stone bench outside in the March rainstorm, not Joe.

Less bloodied, but vastly subdued, his kidnappers, Busted Lip and Broken Nose returned with august company. Their leader flaunted a two hundred dollar haircut and a trust-funder’s flair for sartorial splendor. “Don’t get up on our account, Mr. Ford.” he said with the genteel irony of the casually cruel.

“Mr. Conrad. Of the CIA Conrads,” Nate gave a playful tug on the zip tie securing his ankle firmly to a heavy, old-fashioned recliner. “I thought we had a mutual nonaggression treaty. Or do you have something against Irishmen?” he added, in the accent borrowed from his father.

“Who doesn’t?” Conrad crossed to a cabinet, critically eyeing a layer of dust before picking up a loose cocktail napkin to wipe it down. “Not even the Irish get along with the Irish, in my experience. Except on St. Patrick’s Day. And therein lies our worry. Of all the Irish bars in all the world, you had the misfortune to walk into Joe’s.”

“I’ve always been lucky that way.” Nate watched his every move as Conrad opened the cabinet and removed a bottle of well-aged Tyrconnell and three glasses. “Not my first pick, but a serviceable single malt,” he offered his expert opinion, free of charge.

“It was favored by the man who lived here. James was one of the fraternity, of course. We attended some...post-graduate...studies together.” Conrad carefully poured a finger of whiskey in each glass, but only picked up one.

“Cambridge, Mass...?” Nate asked, drawing out a Brahmin accent.

“Cambodia. Laos.” Conrad crossed the room and straightened a photo, tipping his glass to a man standing next to a young woman in a softball uniform. “He saved my life from a psychotic smuggler with a sword. Not the kind of thing you forget.”

“No, it wouldn’t be,” Nate agreed, obliging. Against his better judgment he eyed the untouched glasses.

“James moved back into his family business after our travels, but we always kept in touch. That is, until a few years ago, when I got word that he’d died. Naturally, I looked into the circumstances, but all official channels lead to dead ends, and, until recently, unofficial channels were unfairly considered illegal.”

“That must have been very frustrating for you,” Nate sympathized.

“So you understand my concern, when one of our operatives reported that you had travelled to Seacouver on the pretext of a mortgage fraud recovery case, and then made contact with this man,” Conrad tapped another picture, this time a wedding photo. The missing fraternity brother, smiling as if it hurt. A beautiful bride, wreathed in real antique Irish lace. Finally, a tall man with long brown hair and neatly trimmed dark beard, leaning jauntily on a cane, giving the bride away.

Nate leaned forward in the old chair, squinting for a closer look. “Hey. That really is Joe.” Nate was getting a really bad feeling about the situation. If Nate alienated Conrad, it put his entire team in danger. If he did Conrad a favor, they might get clear without a fight. “He’s just bartender, not a contact. You’ve got this all wrong.”

“Then you have a chance to make it right,” Conrad said, smooth as silk. Walking back to the cabinet, he picked up the second glass and brought it over to Nate, setting it precisely in the center of a coaster on the table by his elbow. “Don’t underestimate this man. People die around him. He has some very dangerous and capable friends. I believe he killed James to take control of his intelligence assets.”

His international assets? Nate wondered. He stared at the glass without touching it, weighing the odds. If Joe Dawson deliberately killed a government agent, one his own family, the whole situation was turned on end. The man certainly had some dubious people coming to his aid, dangerously tangled up with his own team. 

The phone was their lifeline. Parker, Hardison and Eliot now had as much information as he did. Probably more. Eliot had a naturally suspicious nature--he would find a way to turn the tables if he smelled a rat.

Nate picked up the glass, leaned back in the chair, and smiled at Conrad. “What do you need me to do?”

“I want you to find out how your new friend Joe got away with murdering James Horton. Scot free.”

**12**

“Scot free. That’s one way to put it,” Methos said acerbically from the back seat of his own SUV, earning a warning scowl from MacLeod. 

“Hush. I want to hear this,” MacLeod said, downshifting the SUV to climb a short, steep hill. “It sounds like they’ll bring Joe inside.”

They had split the teams between the black van and Methos’ SUV, ostensibly to increase the flexibility of their attack. Nate also pointed out there was no more passenger room in the van, and if they were going to tie someone to the roof during the getaway, it wasn’t going to be him. 

After a Chinese fire drill of a scramble, MacLeod had ended up driving Methos’ rental, with Eliot riding shotgun, all the more official for having acquired a real 12 gauge. Methos kept a wary eye on where the gun was pointed from the back seat. 

As they drove, Methos used Hardison’s spare Ipad to track the other team members in the van and listen in on Joe’s phone. The little speaker was a poor substitute for the advanced earbud, but Eliot had insisted on having his back, and there were no extras. 

There was a pause in the muffled, mostly inaudible conversation from the condo. “I think Conrad’s offering Nate a deal,” Eliot said, frowning in concentration. “Don’t worry if it sounds like Nate might take it. He probably wants to get alone with Joe, so he can bring him in on a plan. Rough out a script.”

“And he’ll pass on my message?” Methos reminded. “Joe won’t have a lot of reason to trust Nate. When it comes to playing hostage, lets just say he doesn’t play well with others.”

“Joe tends to write his own lines,” MacLeod agreed, adding in a low voice, “I’d just as soon he foregoes the Lyons scenario.”

“I’ve never heard of the Lyons scenario,” Eliot said.

“There’s good reason for that,” Adam said disparagingly. “The Lyons scenario is the one where everyone gets shot in the end.”

“That’s a drawback,” Eliot agreed, and went back to listening.

The sound of a sliding door. A bump. Ford’s voice, urgent, whispering, but unintelligible, apparently giving Joe his lines. The sound of scraping fabric. 

Then, loud and clear as a bullhorn, Joe’s voice. “Give me that!”

“I think Joe found the phone,” Methos winced, turning down the volume, missing Nate’s words in the background.

Joe swore, using words St. Patrick would mightily disapprove of. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Hubbub? He said that?”

“Uh, oh. I think Joe’s already going off script,” Hardison warned over the backchannel.

“Keep it down, or it’s the balcony again, Joe,” Methos heard Nate warn. Or threaten. “Let’s just keep it calm, and talk about your brother-in-law. Maybe we can put all this misunderstanding in the past.”

“I’ll say what I damn well want, as loud as I want, to whoever I want,” Joe announced truculently. “These guys don’t have a clue about James Horton. Anyone with an ounce of sense would be headed to a beach somewhere, not airing James’ dirty laundry. It’s ancient history. That means you, bub,” Joe said with a peculiar intensity he usually only saved for late night conversations about the important things: music, love, sex, death, writing, more music, and how much beer was left in the keg. Behind the passion, Methos could hear Joe’s personal soundtrack to survival. And loyalty.

Methos drew a battered notebook out of his coat and began writing in block letters, ‘Conrad doesn’t know about immortals. Horton didn’t tell him about the Game. Watcher to the end.’ He flashed it in front of MacLeod’s eyes as he drove, then snatched it back before Eliot could see, tore the leaf off, and tossed it out the window.

“Hey, that’s littering,” Eliot protested.

“It was a wind prayer. Respect diversity,” Methos retorted.

Joe’s voice over the speaker cut Methos off. “If this guy Conrad has given you an out, take it. Take it and run as far and fast as you can. He won’t offer twice. Otherwise, you’ll be trapped here. Like a fly in amber. You hear me now?”

“You realize they’re probably watching us,” Nate warned again. Methos heard a genuine note of frustration. Or maybe it was alarm.

“Of course they are. Right through that hidden camera behind the picture of Gerald Ford. James wired it in. He wanted to use Nixon but I kept losing the photo down the incinerator chute. By accident, of course.”

“Of course,” Methos and MacLeod echoed.

“Whatever the hell happened to the right to privacy, anyway? Here’s what I think of your video feed,” Joe stated, all too calmly. “And your hubbub. Lets see what happens when we mix the two.”

“Oh, Joe, don’t...” Methos groaned. But Joe did. Methos imagined him raising the phone up to his ear, Bart Starr aiming at the endzone in the fourth quarter. The last sound heard over the phone was the distinctive sound of picture glass and expensive component parts shattering. Then the feed went dead.

“I guess Joe’s gone off script,” Eliot said to Hardison.

“It sounded like he took Nate’s script and blew it to smithereens, Hardison shot back. “My ears are still ringing.”

Methos was already scribbling in his notebook. ‘Joe thought he had to destroy phone. CIA backtrace might find us.’ He handed it off to MacLeod on his left side, out of Eliot’s reach, much to Eliot’s disgust. 

MacLeod read it, nodded, then nonchalantly handed the note over to Eliot, much to Methos’ disgust. “Joe’s trying to give us a little breathing room.”

“That, and he probably didn’t want the 206 section reverse engineering International Asset’s phone,” Eliot guessed. “Nate isn’t easily impressed.”

“It’s just an ordinary phone,” Methos lied. Eliot grinned.

“Joe sounded a bit steamed at the news we were coming to the rescue,” MacLeod observed neutrally.

“You think?” Methos agreed. “Anything that keeps him warm.”

**13**

“Now you’ve done it,” Nate surveyed the shattered scatter of lens glass and solid state parts that had bounced off the bookshelf and scattered across the carpet before them. “I coveted that phone. I would have charged it. Polished it. I would have respected it in the morning.”

“You’re nuts, you know that?” Joe complained. “I should have cut you off and tossed you out of the bar when you started boasting about fixing presidential elections in Latin America.”

“Says the man trying to take on the CIA single-handed.”

“What? Hang on, I can’t hear a damn thing,” Joe reached up and pulled some soggy tufts of cotton from his ears, torn from his shirt to protect his hearing.

Nate regarded his fellow prisoner, weighing how to gain his trust. Rainwater had washed the headwound clean, but for a pink rivulet he wiped away. His white button down shirt was ripped and ruined, and a forlorn green ribbon on his pocket drooped. Like Nate, he was superficially, almost symbolically bound by the ankle with a plastic tie to the leg of the futon couch. Conrad clearly had a lot of faith in other means of security. 

Nate noticed that the velour covering was taking a beating as water ran off Joe’s clothes. “Do you often bask in the glow of alienating persons of authority?”

“It’s a talent. But let’s not exaggerate, now. I’m not taking on the whole CIA. We’ve only seen this Conrad and his two merry men. How many could there be?” Joe speculated, leaning over to peer down the hall to make sure Conrad hadn’t left any guards behind inside the apartment. “There were what, a half a dozen or so in the lobby?”

“The Dustmen number two hundred and six. It’s in their charter,” Nate offered.

“Oh. Well. I’m pretty sure Conrad didn’t bring them all,” Joe said.

“Do you know who they are?” Nate asked, a little perturbed by Joe’s nonchalance.

“They tried to recruit James a long time ago. He did some work for them, but in the long run, James had his own fish to fry,” Joe said with a perfectly straight face. Nate knew that face. He used it all the time.

“It’s the CIA.”

“It’s just a splinter group. Speaking of which...,” Leaning as far over as he could without falling off the couch, he picked up two of the largest splinters of glass, barely an inch across, tossing one to Ford, who caught it gingerly.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“You need operating instructions?” Joe prodded, as he proceeded to wrap a bit of cloth around one end of the glass. He attacked the zip tie holding his artificial ankle to the couch with a vengeance. “We have a few minutes if they were planning on watching us in comfort. There’s remodeled penthouse rooms up on the top floor. The elevator is slow. Your Conrad struck me as a top floor kind of guy.”

“Believe me, he’s not my Conrad.” With a grimace, Nate followed his lead and started sawing. “What the hell was that speech all about?” he asked.

“Famous last words? Doesn’t really matter. I don’t like mind games. What about you? You have anything to say for the cameras? Or do you like being conned into doing Conrad’s dirty work?”

“There’s no need to be insulting. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nate claimed.

“I was watching Conrad from the deck. His body language was hesitant. He didn’t quite know how far he could go, or what he could get you to do. He doesn’t really understand who or what you are.” Joe paused to rub some feeling back into his hands, looking up to see if Nate was following him. “ I don’t know you, either. Maybe later we’ll have a career discussion about what you were doing camped out in my bar tonight.”

“Why, your establishment came highly recommended. The writeup was quite colorful. Even Conrad was impressed by your intercontinental business model. It was only a matter of time before he paid you a visit.”

“It can’t be my cash flow. There isn’t one. And he never struck me as a music lover. Bottom line? When he visited James, he treated me like the poor relative, and I figured him for a rich jerk.” Joe leaned over, his rain-soaked clothes squelching on the futon cover. “We were both right. But that doesn’t normally lead to felony kidnap, even in the CIA. What kind of guy does he think I am?”

“You’re the kind of guy who can kill your brother-in-law?” Nate guessed.

Joe stilled, then resumed sawing without a denial. “I guess that’s a big ticket item,” Joe said grimly. “He must think I’m already in his pocket. He can do anything he wants to me. But you’re a different story.”

Ford’s shard of glass slipped. “Ow!” He inspected the tiny line of blood raised on his finger, and glared at Joe as if it was his fault. “Why am I different?”

“He wants something from you, and he doesn’t want to screw it up.”

“What he wanted from me, was your confession,” Nate confessed, pointing at the camera Joe had killed with his phone. “On that video feed.”

“My confession to what? Murdering someone close to me in cold blood? For a guy like Conrad, that’s not a crime, that’s a skill set. Like knowing what buttons to push in an interrogation. You don’t get it, do you? Conrad isn’t looking for Horton’s killer. He’s looking for Horton’s replacement.”

“He’s recruiting?” Nate asked, dismayed. “Of course. He’s recruiting. I’m an idiot.”

“A little drunk, and a lot burned out, but probably not an idiot,” Joe managed to laugh. “No more than I am. Well, okay, that’s probably not going to make you feel any better.” Joe started again. “Conrad’s trying to screw with our heads, get us under his control. And anyone who comes looking for us.”

“This is a job fair. We’ve both got connections, connections he wants.”

“It’s a win/win for Conrad,” Joe mused dispassionately. “You break me wide open, they pick up the pieces and get the secret decoder ring inside. I outlast you until the cavalry arrives, they get the cavalry as a bonus gift. Then it all starts again. And they’ve got you right in the center of it all. On camera, the lead inquisitor. And they’re nowhere to be seen. Innocent as lambs.”

**14**

“It’s a trap, then,” Eliot frowned.

“Go to the head of the class,” Methos encouraged.

MacLeod looked up at Methos in the rear view mirror. “What else was Joe trying to say?”

“The usual. Bugger off and lie low and run away and leave him to a fate worse than death.”

“Like that ever works?” MacLeod perversely seemed to cheer up.

“Like that ever works,” Methos agreed, descending into gloom. He kept listening for two long minutes that he couldn’t afford to waste before discarding the earphones, but Joe’s cell remained stubbornly silent. They’d lost their ears in the enemy camp.

They were planning on the fly. Not an ideal situation, but Methos, Amanda and MacLeod were all agreed that time was of the essence, if each dwelt on different reasons. Amanda rightfully distrusted all governmental entities, and MacLeod harbored an almost instinctual abhorrence for anything that whiffed of James Horton. Methos kept to himself his estimations about the progress of hypothermia in an adult male indefinitely confined and exposed to the elements. It was raining. The temperature was dropping. They had to find Joe. That was enough.

Methos was less sure of the motives of their new associates. Hardison seemed wholly committed to gaming their opponent, though he had a healthy regard for the risks. He really would have to look up the hacker in the future--his elegant genius and crafty joy in his art drew Methos like a moth to a candle. As Joe’s particular streak of bardic creativity had, in his own uncompromising and bullheaded way.

Eliot clearly had a fierce love of the hunt, but a philosopher’s ideals in choosing his causes, not necessarily wisely, but passionately. He and MacLeod had far too many lethal traits in common. Parker was a loose cannon, besotted with Amanda but loyal to Ford.

Loyalty. Methos, MacLeod and Amanda were placing a great deal of faith in a man they had never met--Nathan Ford was a cipher. Their new allies didn’t know Joe--their loyalties were clearly bound with Ford. Not that Methos had a shred of proof they meant Joe harm; it was just human nature, when push came to shove, to save one’s own kith, kin and kind first.

“So, did he do it?” Eliot asked out of the blue. 

“Did who do what?” Methos looked up from the Ipad, momentarily at a loss.

“Did Joe kill his own brother-in-law?” Eliot asked. 

Doubt. Like wildfire in dry grass, it spread if not smothered. Protect kin. But outlaw the kinslayer. The long answer was...yes. Joe conspired to kill, he meant to kill, and he abetted in killing his kin by marriage. But the short answer...

“No.” MacLeod said it first, and with a conviction Methos could never muster, not even after 5000 years of practice. “I killed James Horton. He needed killing.”

Eliot minutely relaxed, doubt eradicated, for the time being. In Methos’ mind, new doubt sprouted. Joe’s convictions were still in question. His inconvenient conscience had a nasty tendency toward self-sabotage. 

“Horton was a serial murderer,” Methos explained, mostly for the benefit of the listening Parker and Hardison than for Eliot, who seemed to take MacLeod’s words at utter face value. (And if Methos had been able to master that talent of conviction, they might not have lost Alexandria. Or Troy. Doubt. Wicked doubt.)

MacLeod felt compelled to expand. “Hundreds of deaths lay at his door, in the end, by his word or hand. Unarmed women. Priests.”

“In Southeast Asia?” Eliot asked, not quite shocked. “I heard it was like that.”

“In Paris, actually,” Methos countered. “And New York. Lisbon. St. Petersburg. Even here in Seacouver.” 

“Joe tried to tell me once, that Cambodia changed Horton. I didn’t listen.” MacLeod twitched, and added, “If this Conrad of yours knew Horton in his youth, maybe he had a hand in twisting him into a killer.”

“Knowing Conrad, I’d say there’s no maybe about it,” Eliot said coldly. “Given their history, what would Joe do if he got Conrad alone?”

“What would you do, Eliot?” Methos asked softly.

“I will think about it.” He had no more to say. They drove on.

**15**

“If you thought your friends were walking into a trap, why didn’t you tell them while we still had your phone?” Nate stood as his zip tie snapped free, rewarding himself by finishing the rest of the Tyrconnell in his glass.

“I did. In no uncertain terms,” Joe said impatiently, still struggling with the hard plastic line.

Nate reran the conversation in his aching head. “I guess you did. And here I thought you were concerned about me. Maybe I had one more Jamesons than I thought.” He stood and checked the old landline. Disconnected. He peeked out the spyhole into the hallway. Quiet. So far.

“I know exactly how many Jamesons you had. I’ll send you the tab. The part about the fly in amber applied to you, too. Maybe I should have used a different analogy to get your attention? An olive in a martini?”

“You’re in the wrong profession to be preaching abstinence,” Nate pointed out.

“Sorry. I get cranky when I’m kidnapped.” Joe paused to yank on the tie, fumbling and frustrated. “You should get going. If you don’t play Conrad’s game, he has nothing to hold you here.”

Belatedly, Nate saw that Joe was still shaking with cold. He grabbed the barknife and towel from the cocktail cabinet, also bringing over the third glass of Tyrconnell for Joe. “Allow me,” he offered, and smoothly severed the tie. “So what do we do now? Rappel down?”

“What are you planning to do, knot up the sheets? It’s twelve floors down.” Joe wrapped the towel around his neck and both hands around the glass to keep from spilling, and savored the illusory warmth. “Head on down the hall. Conrad’s probably locked the elevator at the top, but that still leaves the fire stairs. You don’t need to run. Just walk right out like you own the place. If my theory is right, they won’t lift a finger to stop you. Be a shame to waste a perfectly good escape attempt.”

“I’m waiting for you.” Nate looked around, and found Joe’s cane where it had been dropped in the hallway. “Need operating instructions?” Nate held out his hand.

Joe hesitated, then hauled his soggy frame upright with Nate’s help. “Unless there’s a damn good reason to climb, stairs are like tequila. After one flight, I cut myself off,” he said in honest apology. As he spoke, a distant explosion rattled the glass door, coming from the street below. A predatory gleam lit Joe’s eye. “You should go. The fireworks are starting. I’ve got work to do.”

**16**

Hardison watched with a twinge of jealousy as Eliot drove off with the two newcomers in the shiny SUV. It only made sense that he stayed in the van with the digital gear, but he still ended up with the nagging suspicion he’d drawn the short straw. Hardison ended up ricocheting around the back of the van as Parker drove, wholly busy with keeping his computer connections alive as the van cornered like a tilt-a-whirl at a county fair. Amanda moved lightly all about the van as if it were standing still, packing, checking and rechecking harnesses, bags, zip lines, jumars, webbing and pulleys.

“Are you two going to use all that?” Hardison asked doubtfully about the growing pile.

“We wouldn’t want to leave you out of the fun,” said Amanda as she eyed a chock critically, discarded it, and found another. To Hardison’s eye, they were exactly the same, but this one pleased Amanda far more thoroughly.

“Is that a parasail?”

“More of a parakite, really, though I see Parker has made some quite ingenious modifications to the airfoil that make limited flight theoretically possible. You use these lines to guide...”

“Oh, no, I use these feet to walk. Those involve air. Lots of air. I like ground. Nice, hard, solid ground. Earth sign. Capricorn. Four on the floor.”

“Hardison’s idea of fun seems to involve plugging into a playstation and gyrating in many directions,” Parker said with sad regret. “Four points of contact at all times.”

“Really?” Amanda asked, wide-eyed. “Someday you’ll have to show me,” she added, drawing her finger down his spine as he bent over the keyboard. “I’ve never done it with a playstation, before. But I can show you some variations of four on the floor that will make you redefine gyration.”

“Hey! Hey, now, focus! That is not the equipment we are checking out right now!” Hardison wasn’t pleading. No, he wasn’t.

“Which four?” Parker asked. “Adam, Duncan or Eliot?”

“Which four do you want?” Amanda offered generously.

“Eliot! We need to switch,” Hardison bellowed into the bud.

But it was Adam-the-nearly-ninja that answered over the Ipad link. “Amanda, play nice. The young man is working.”

“I’m sorry, Alec,” Amanda said, chastened, in all sincerity. “That’s your first name, right? Some of my favorite lovers were named Alec. Anyway, please forgive me. I fall back on teasing when I’m worried. And I’m very worried about Joe. Accept my apology?”

“Sure. Of course. No problem,” Mesmerized, Hardison rushed his words.

“Now let’s talk about parakites. It’s all about touch, speed, angle and fine motor control...just like sex, if you really think about it...”

**17**

While they drove through the city center, Methos availed himself of some bits and trinkets from the hidden compartment in Amanda’s travel bag. A set of skeleton keys might come in handy; the powerful compact flashlight might be vital. Or useless. Bonus -- a pink Swiss Army Knife -- embarrassing, but less obvious than his poniard in close quarters, and just as deadly with the correct placement. Not that he was leaving the rest of his armament behind.

“What have we here?” Methos held up a pair of designer handcuffs, complete with fluffy fur lining and breakaway safety lock.

“Put those down. Eliot will get the wrong idea,” MacLeod said, coloring.

“When it comes to Amanda, is that possible?” Methos wondered.

“Amanda wanted to brush up on her carnival tricks,” MacLeod addressed Eliot, ignoring Methos. “It’s good for balance. And dexterity.”

“Any port in a storm,” Methos grinned.

“Speaking of which,” MacLeod deflected, turning serious, “What would you have used to storm a fortress back in the day? Looking at it from the perspective of a historian.”

“Trebuchets. Battering rams. Starvation,” Methos answered. “Draining the moat. Flooding the bailey. Tunnelling. Using sappers to mine the gates. Fire. From a historian’s perspective, of course.”

“Of course,” MacLeod echoed grimly. He wasn’t that far removed from his clan raiding days, after all.

Methos eyed Eliot. “And berserkers are handy after the gates are breached. If you can keep them aimed.”

“I have a pretty good sense of direction,” Eliot assured, not particularly fooled by any part of the exchange.

“Will you lend me Joe’s gun, MacLeod?” Methos offered neutrally. MacLeod would only shoot at last resort. Methos had no qualms about shooting at 3rd, 2nd, or 1st resorts, if the situation required.

MacLeod dug the gun out of the inner pocket of his coat without a word, and handed it back. The safety was set, but it was fully loaded.

Eliot cocked an eye at the driver. “I put you down on the bar floor three times tonight. You had that peashooter all through our little tussle, and didn’t think to use it?”

“MacLeod? Think?” Methos snorted. “As if.”

“Don’t be rude, _Adam_ ,” MacLeod warned, then turned his attention to Eliot. “It was a fair fight,” he said politely. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to spar with a skilled hand-to-hand technician. I’m afraid I was rusty.”

“Rusty. Right,” Eliot said with a slight frown. “Maybe we can try it again, sometime.”

“I’d be delighted,” MacLeod grinned, with just a touch of wolf.

“Down, boys,” Methos reproved. “Oh, look what Amanda had squirrelled away!” He held up a shiny shield. “An Air Marshal’s badge. Wherever could this have come from, do you think, MacLeod?”

MacLeod gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll find a way to return it after we get Joe. Do you think we can use it?”

“Yes. I think we can,”Methos said slowly. “Tell me, Eliot, do you think your Hardison can hack the facial recognition scanners in the Towers? I don’t want any of us on a tape loop in Annandale tonight.”

“He probably already has,” Eliot assured. “You get that, Hardison?” he added, for the benefit of his newly restored earbud.

“You want to be Brad Pitt or Ben Affleck this time?” Hardison offered.

“How about Steve McQueen?” Eliot asked. “You promised me a Steve McQueen.”

“His best shots are in black and white,” Hardison objected.

“It’s not like they won’t notice it’s been shopped,” Eliot soothed. “Hello? Steve McQueen?”

“I’ll take that as a yes, the facial recognition scanners are hacked,” Methos interrupted. “Now on to Castle Keep. We’ll go back to basics. Fire. Water. Wind. Earth. Here’s the plan. Find the flaws now, or forever hold your peace. And I do mean ‘forever’. Second-guessers will be shot with Joe’s gun.”

“He sounds like he means that,” Eliot murmured to MacLeod.

“I’d take it seriously,” MacLeod confirmed. “He shoots me all the time.”

“Not as many times as Joe has,” Methos groused from the back seat, baring his teeth at Eliot in a predatory smile. “We’re joking, of course.”

“Of course,” MacLeod said with a straight face, driving on.

**18**

“I thought you called off the cavalry,” Nate said, crossing to check the hall one more time, then moving to the window to peer out into the driving rain. Down on the street, smoke and flames rose from a manhole cover.

“It’s not like cavalries stop charging to the rescue on just anyone’s say-so,” Joe said, resigned. “You didn’t call off yours. If you hurry, you could shortstop them out front, explain the situation, and everyone goes home intact.”

“Except you.” Nate was finding it very annoying to be maneuvered. Was that a sound in the corridor? The elevator arriving? They were running out of time.

“I told you, I have work to do.” Giving up on the argument for the moment, Joe struck out, not toward the front door, but down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “This guy Conrad, he’s bad for business. Yours, and mine. Don’t you get the urge to charge into the fray, sometimes? Knock down a few windmills?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” Nate said with a remarkable lack of enthusiasm, “Tally ho.”

“I was kind of aiming for something more John Wayne than _Charge of the Light Brigade._ ”

“You can tie a yellow ribbon around my old oak...”

“Never mind,” Joe said hastily. “I get the picture.”

“Unless you have an arsenal in here, I don’t see us changing the balance of power from under the bed,” Nate objected, as they barged into the second bedroom. He squinted against the pastel feminine decor, two closets and focused on a pink bedspread littered with stuffed animals. “Especially that bed.”

“It’s my niece’s room,” Joe said with a touch of warning. “James was a paranoid nut, but he loved his daughter. Brought her stuffed toys from all over the world.” He opened the smaller closet door, and pushed through some hanging jumpers that dated from the Clinton administration. With a touch, the back wall of the closet slid open, revealing a solid metal door. “Panic room.”

Nate’s eyes widened. “Quite an arsenal,” he admired. Sniper rifles, automatics, even a grenade launcher. And was that a crossbow in the corner? “Are those swords?” 

“James had peculiar issues,” Joe said as he grabbed a gun mounted on the wall next to the door and checked the breech. Loaded. Ready for intruders. 

“Is that Beretta what I think it is?” Nate asked wistfully. “The Sword Cutlass Special? I hear they are rare. I have one of the standard Berettas, off the shelf, of course, always wanted to handle that model.”

“James had a pair,” Joe said, shrugging, not particularly impressed by the rarity. “Beretta 92FS.”

It was human nature. Nate had stayed behind, made himself an ally. Established a bond of trust. Of course Joe handed over the gun. Whatever skulduggery he was up to, Joe was the kind of mark who liked people. He hung out with them in bars. He served them drinks.

Nate reversed the gun, centering the barrel on Joe before he could pick up another weapon. “Let’s go back to the living room and have another Tyrconnell. There’s a few things we need to discuss about your brother-in-law.”

“There were more cameras?” Joe asked, more disappointed than surprised.

“There were a lot more cameras.” Nate carefully closed the Panic Room door behind them, and the closet as well, just before Busted Lip and Broken Nose burst into the bedroom and grabbed Joe by the shoulders. This time the bruised guards took no chances, and bound Joe’s hands before him with more of the unbreakable plastic ties. Joe still narrowly missed surprising one with a head butt.

Nate stepped in close, before the irritated guards retaliated. “I didn’t have a choice, Joe. And you didn’t have a chance. You mentioned charging a few windmills. You remember how that turned out for the Man from La Mancha?”

“You make a lousy Sancho Panza. I guess it’s back to fresh air and spring showers. Do me a favor? See if you can find my Hendrix albums or maybe a little reggae. The BeeGees give me hives.” Joe kept his eyes on Nate. “I had to take the shot.”

“You had to take the shot,” Nate confirmed, ignoring the bitter taste in his mouth. “Conrad’s a powerful man, Joe. You can’t take him on alone with a handgun and an Irish temper. Sometimes you have to compromise.”

“Yeah?” Joe stood a little taller. “How’s that working for you so far?”

**19**  
Earth.

Eliot stepped gingerly through the underground access tunnel that ran along the street next to the towers, pacing off the distance to the Towers. Construction was ongoing around the downtown area, so the usual barriers to access were more cosmetic than concrete. 

Gas, sewer and electrical lines wound like arteries through the body of the city. And there was a new dedicated fiber optic line. All the best for Conrad and his merry band. Eliot held the flashlight between his teeth and indulged in a little fine surgery with the Swiss Army knife. A whiff of gas, here. A bared electrical wire wound around another gas pipe, there. He crossed a second wire, flinching back from the arcing spark.

The wires glowed. Eliot ran.

**20**  
Fire.

Methos and MacLeod watched as the manhole cover downhill from the alley where they hid sailed into the air like a frisbee. Flames shot up from the utility shaft, hissing in the rain. After a short delay, the open manhole in the center of the alley at their feet puffed warm air up into their faces.

“I hope Eliot’s all right,” MacLeod peered down into the darkness.

“He’s handy. And he insisted,” Methos said, reaching back into the SUV to pull out the last of their props. He started to pin the Air Marshal badge on the inside of his duster.

MacLeod snatched it with a grin. “You’ll never convince them you’re the marshal.”

“You always get to be the marshal. It’s my turn,” Methos complained, holding out his hand.

“They’ll never believe you. It’s that smirk and those shifty eyes. Don’t feel bad -- it could be worse. You could be the prisoner.”

Eliot poked his head out of the manhole access at their feet, smoke-smudged and ruffled. “You two still at it? How about a little help, here?”

MacLeod pulled him up out of the tunnel, brushing off a smouldering patch of insulation. He held him at arm’s length, and spread a little more carbon blacking over Eliot’s cheek. “You, now, look just like a guilty terrorist. I arrest you in the name of the law. I will now deliver you into the nearest bastion of law and order.”

“Showoff,” Methos sulked, but he made sure the badge was level and centered on MacLeod’s duster. Handing MacLeod the shotgun, he pulled out the handcuffs, dangling them before the Highlander. “Next time you’re shopping for Amanda, buy two.”

MacLeod nodded. “Now I know what to get you for Christmas.”

“Can we get on with it?” Eliot reluctantly held his hands behind his back. The fur had been taped down, and the easy breakaway lock disguised with a black marker, but they would never pass close inspection. They had to rely on speed and confusion.

Methos peered around the alley wall. “The explosion drew away the first layer of guards, but they’re getting reinforcements. Six, maybe?” 

“We could use another distraction,” Eliot observed, meeting MacLeod’s eyes and then glancing at the SUV.

“Hey, I just updated the lease!” Methos objected.

Nevertheless, he had to admire the merry flames that fluttered from the gas tank. One of Amanda’s evening dresses burned robustly as they pushed the SUV into the street, allowing it to gain momentum down the shallow incline that led toward the Towers. As they ducked into the next alley, the guards ran in every direction, fleeing the entrance. 

Within seconds, the SUV thumped a barrier, squishing a bumper and setting off it’s airbags and burglar alarm. The burning wick in the gas tank hit a band of shiny sequins, flickered, lost interest in burning and anticlimactically went out.

Two minutes later, the marshal, his deputy, and their fearsome looking prisoner marched into the Towers.

**21**  
Air.

Parker and Amanda stood on the roof of the closest building overlooking the Towers. By luck rather than planning, it also faced Horton’s corner apartment.

“The rain is not helping,” Amanda squinted upward, hoping for a break in the squall. They were standing on the roof of the high rise next to the Towers condominium complex, overlooking the older building’s roof by three stories. The differential was worse when Amanda searched out the one lit window two storeys farther down on the 12th floor. “The angle is too high. We can’t make a bridge.”

Parker nodded in professional agreement. “I think we can catch enough wind to float over to the roof. We could drop a line from there. If we have enough time.”

“Time is relative. Stretch it to fit your needs,” Amanda told Parker. “Motion detectors may be a problem. The guards could find our anchor point before we could get to Joe and Nate, much less get them down.”

“We can shoot over an anchor line into the building wall next to 1206, but the roller brake for the guy wire isn’t good at that angle. I’d probably slide right into the side of the building, be squished like a bug and fall to the pavement,” Parker said eagerly. “Doubly squished. And kiting over to a tiny balcony in this wind is impossible.”

“Improbable,” Amanda corrected. “You’re sure that’s where Joe and Nate are being held, Hardison?” she asked. Without telling Methos, she had coaxed Hardison into giving up his earbud for the cause, so Amanda could stay in the loop. He had earphones and speakerphones and all sorts of other lovely toys. He would never miss it.

“They’ve left the light on for us,” Hardison confirmed. “The penthouse is lit up like the Fourth of July. Haven’t they heard of global warming?”

“Focus. What about the spy cameras in Horton’s rooms?”

“You were right,” Parker said. “They’re everywhere. Conrad has the whole place buttoned up. Roof. Corridors. Elevator. Basement. Lobby. He’s even spying on himself in the penthouse. More cameras than guards. I see Nate. And Joe. Talking. Or arguing. With Nate, it’s hard to tell.”

“Just wait until you have a discussion with Joe. How does Joe look?” Amanda asked, fingering the pack holding the parakites, estimating angles and distances, over and over again.

“Wet. Cold. A little surly.”

“Wouldn’t you be? He really has a quite lovely smile, when he has the opportunity,” Amanda defended. As she spoke, she dumped her equipment bag in the lee of the parapet, and started donning a harness.

“Ah,” Hardison interjected from his post in the van. “I can see Nate’s coming to the window. I’m not sure...is that his signal, Parker? Is he calling us in or waving us off?”

 _Boom_. A manhole cover rose up off the empty street and fell with a clang.

“I don’t know about your Nate, but there’s no mistaking Adam’s signal,” Amanda said dryly. “That train has left the station. Our clock is ticking.” She turned and looked at Parker. “Do you have a solution for the 12th floor approach?” she asked, skipping from the seminar to the final exam. “Intact, mind you. No points are awarded for broken legs.”

Parker nodded, holding up both packs. “Aim the anchor line at the 13th floor above the apartment, to flatten the angle, and use a chute to slow the descent on the wire. That gets me to the balcony above Nate and Joe, if the anchor holds.”

“Creative. Untested. Dangerous. I like it.” Amanda unlimbered the modified launcher, siting along its length. “I’ll do it.”

“But it’s my idea,” Parker protested, crestfallen.

“It’s too dangerous. I have the experience.” Amanda’s brooked no discussion, mistress to apprentice, in a tone she had learned at Rebecca’s knee. Then her voice lightened. “Your Eliot could use a backup on the roof. That’s dangerous, too.”

“You bet your catburglar booties it is,” Hardison piped in. “I’m picking up more men around Conrad. Maybe a dozen? He’s getting nervous. What is with this decor? Early cubicle? I hate it when bureaucrats poison a perfectly good architectural space with cubicles.”

“We’re on the clock, Alec,” Amanda reminded 

Hardison regrouped. “Uh-oh. Two more men. Down in 1206. Rounding up Nate and Joe. Uh. No. Just Joe. Hang on a second.” Hardison’s voice dropped off the circuit completely for a moment. “Um. Well. Yeah, Nate’s got Joe heading back toward the balcony,” he said nervously. “You don’t really want me to bother you with the details, do you? The bottom line is, Joe’s back out in the cold.”

Amanda frowned and gripped the launcher as she watched dim shadows moving clumsily on the balcony. One went down, hard. Two returned to the warmth of the apartment. Suddenly, the surging sound of Souza came marching across the space between the buildings. The music had started up again. “Hardison, can you cut that off?” Amanda snapped.

“I’d love to. But it’s _analog._ A record player, no less.”

“Then make some mischief elsewhere. Find a way to break up those squads around Conrad. Team Adam doesn’t have enough ammunition for a major firefight.”

“I can start cutting off random cameras on different floors. Maybe Conrad will send a few of his men to investigate.”

“Divide and conquer. Set it up.” Amanda said, a cold and deadly thread lacing her words. “The penthouse is now your priority, both of you, with Adam’s team. Cut off the head, and the heart will stop beating. Every time.”

“Ah, Parker,” Hardison began. “That’s a metaphor.”

But Parker was staring at Amanda when she spoke. “I don’t think so.”

**22**  
Water.

Down below in the street, steam rose out of a damaged manhole cover. Rain without, and a cracked water main within, soon combined to create a rising flood that worked its way into the cracked foundations of the Towers. Fingers of water flowed under the building into the crevices and crawl spaces and down to the deepest basements, where lay buried dusty secrets hidden from even Dustmen.

On the balcony above, Joe stared into the apartment, rain washing around him on the open deck. 

Inside, warm and dry, Nate stared out, an untouched Tyrconnell at his elbow.

One speaker blew under the assault of the Souza euphoniums, but the other soldiered on. Before his fingers lost their feeling, Joe worked two more torn strips from his shirt into his ears to preserve what was left of his hearing. Then, with care, he worked the small bar knife from the cocktail cabinet out of the folds of his sleeve, where Nate had palmed it as they left the Panic Room. Kidnap, escape, capture, release. Games within games.

Nathan Ford was a very, very strange and dangerous man.

Rain blew sideways, again drenching his partially dried clothes.

Joe stared into the apartment.

Nate stared out.

**23**

Methos held the prisoner close, gun drawn and held near Eliot’s cheek, playing the meanest, cruelest, hardbittenest deputy that there ever was. MacLeod strode next to them, holding the shotgun with easy confidence, nodding to the guards, flashing his badge without seeming flashy.

“Hey, go easy on the gunsight,” Eliot said out of the side of his mouth. “Are you sure the safety is on?”

“Would that be authentic?” Methos whispered back. He scowled so authentically that one of the remaining doorguards started to draw his gun in self-defense. Methos backed it off a few degrees. It was a fine line between hardbitten and psychotic, when your measuring stick included Eirik Skullsplitter and Rasputin. And Kronos. There was no forgetting Kronos.

Pairs of younger agents and older officers still milled about the lobby, talking into their headsets and asking for orders. “Hardison, who is beaming these people instructions?” Methos breathed into Eliot’s ear.

Hardison answered immediately. “Theoretically, Conrad, from his lair upstairs, collectively, but he can’t be directing them all individually. There are dispatchers for that. On it...oh. Lovely. Yes...” Almost immediately, one pair of agents standing between them and the elevator banks peeled off, heading for an emergency exit. “I’ll reassign as many as I can.”

“You’re beautiful, Hardison,” Methos crooned. “Can I adopt you?”

“Hey, quit that,” Eliot ducked away from Methos’ warm breath, scowling.

“Behave.” MacLeod loomed over them both. Parting the sea of agents, MacLeod pointed at three random guards, using the shotgun as an exclamation point. “You. You. No, not you--you in the blue suit. Escort duty. We need to get this prisoner to Mr. Conrad immediately.”

Striding masterfully to the desk, MacLeod ordered, “Lock down the elevators after we go up. This is the man responsible for the first explosion. Mr. Conrad will want to structure his interview personally. It’s urgent. There will be more blasts. Keep your eyes open. The bombs could be anywhere.”

MacLeod raised his voice. “Everyone! Check everywhere! Even your own pockets!” He held up his cell phone, an unremarkable Nokia smartphone that happened to work in every timezone. “The bombs look like this! They could even be switched for a real phone!”

The chaos redoubled, and MacLeod and his cohort passed on through to the elevator unmolested, escorted by their three nervous guards. “Make sure you don’t have any planted on you,” MacLeod said sternly. One guard nearly bolted as the doors closed. “You’d better search them, deputy. Just to be sure.”

One by one, Methos ran through their pockets, divesting them of phones and, less obviously, of ID cards. The last one, the one with the blue suit, as it happened, twigged, and grabbed Methos’ wrist. “He’s a fake. They all are!” He yelled, keying his bluetooth device, and slammed the button on the emergency stop.

“That tears it,” Methos pressed the ‘door open’ button, looking right at MacLeod. “Just because you like the color blue.” As the doors slowly slid apart, a short burst of mayhem rocked the elevator. One by one, the unfortunate guards were launched out into the corridor, insensible before they landed. Methos picked an offending bluetooth out of the blue-suited guard’s ear and ground it into the carpet. “In, or out?” he asked, looking at the floor number, six. Six more to where Joe was held. Eight to the penthouse.

“In,” MacLeod made a snap judgment, and the door slid shut. He hit the button for the 12th floor. It did not light. Nor 11. Nor 13.

Methos tried the ‘door open’ again. 

Nothing happened.


	3. “Does it seem they don’t make henchmen the way they used to?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hunters and Dustmen make a very bad mix. And the hangover can be killer.

**24**

“What happened? Why can’t I see that corridor?” Conrad crowded behind the video feed console operator, interfering with his search for the solution. 

“It must be the storm. And the explosion. I’m getting intermittent outages all over the grid. Oh, and the desk is calling. They have water company repairmen and firemen and building inspectors waiting to get in. They say it’s important. Something about a crack in the foundation.”

“Forget the inspectors. I want the board running. I want those video feeds up on the screen. And I want it now.”

The console operator was sorely, sorely tempted to whistle “You Can’t Always Get What You Want”, but even if he hated his job, he liked his head where it was. And Conrad had a reputation from his years in Cambodia. He was not a nice man.

Take now, for instance. The poor saps riding up the elevator would never know what hit them.

Conrad arrayed his men in a semicircle around the elevator opening. There were only six, but they were all armed with perfectly serviceable automatics. Six men firing into that enclosed space would be deadly. The occupants would have no choice but to give up. If Conrad even gave them that choice at all.

Everyone in the room watched silently as the elevator was unlocked and the car began it’s ascent. Three more floors. Two. Then with a harsh clank, the elevator stopped, the indicator light reading twelve. Conrad whirled on the console operator. “Why did you stop it?”

The operator shrank away. “I didn’t!” He pointed to the console. “See? It’s not me!”

Conrad saw. The elevator board was dead. So was every single video feed. The board was dark. He was blind. “Fire stairs. Everybody! Down to 1206. I need this contained. And I mean completely contained, and encapsulated. Now!”

The men with guns stampeded out. The console operator remained. Orders like ‘Everyone!’ almost never included console operators. And he dearly wanted to avoid ‘Encapsulated.’ That order never ended well.

He continued tapping unresponding buttons and testing dead circuits, even though he knew the problem lay down in the depths at the server level, out of his reach. It was better to keep busy, with Conrad on the prowl.

Suddenly, the elevator unclunked, and lurched back into motion. Conrad turned on the console operator again, this time pointing a small, shiny gun. “What is going on?”

“Still not me,” the operator said in a small voice.

His life hung in the balance for long, empty seconds. Then the elevator chimed. Conrad backed up and aimed at the closed door, and fired four shots. And four again.

The damaged door slid open six inches, then stopped, hung up on the bullet damage. Conrad motioned the operator forward to look while he reloaded.

With utmost care, the console operator inched up next to the elevator door and peered inside. “Nothing,” he said, relieved.

“Open it all the way.”

The operator complied, forcing the screeching metal open. “Still nothing.” 

Conrad swore, and went searching from cubicle to cubicle for more guns.

Tomorrow, the console operator was going to take his mother-in-law’s advice and go to plumbing school. Or sanitary engineering. Or maybe into fish processing. In Alaska. There were consoles everywhere. He’d feel cleaner when he got home from work. And be able to sleep at night.

In fact, right now seemed like a really good time to get a new lease on life. As Conrad rifled desk after desk, loading himself down with weapons, the console operator slid out the fire door and down the stairs, unaware he was watched every step of the way.

**25**

“Eliot! Long time no see!” Parker grinned and thumped him on the arm as they hung from her rope together in space over the elevator stalled at the penthouse.

Eliot stared at Parker. “We saw each other an hour ago,” he pointed out. “In the parking lot. At Joe’s.”

“Oh. Right. I was on Amanda Time. It moves slower. She says it helps concentration during a job with a tight timeline.”

Eliot considered. Anyone who could convince Parker to slow down and consider her options could be useful. Maybe Amanda wasn’t such a bad influence after all. He peered up the shaft, and shifted his handhold on the rope. “Where is she?”

Parker’s face shadowed. “Last I saw, her chute got tangled and she smacked into the wall on the thirteenth floor and slid down into an ornamental thyme hedge. Pretty lucky, that. She was kind of quiet for a while, but I think she’s better, now. I’m going to have to work on my spatial relationships. And chute drag computations.”

“Sounds like the plan is still a go,” Eliot granted, mystified, but trusting Parker’s instincts when it came to burglarcraft. “Thanks for the lift, here,” he added, just as a hail of gunfire riddled the car below.

“You’re welcome. What else can I do? I’m bored. There’s no one left but Conrad in the penthouse.”

“How many guys went down the fire stairs? Maybe MacLeod and Adam need some help on twelve. Hardison overrode the elevator and let them out there.”

“Six guys, eight guns.”

“Oh. Well. Then. They’re probably fine.” He listened and thought for a moment. Hardison was quiet. Amanda, too. Too quiet. “Here, why don’t you take this down to Nate.” Eliot took out his earbud and handed it to her. “He’s probably lonely.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to find out the answer to Adam’s question.”

“Which one? Adam sure asks a lot of questions.”

“He’s a curious guy.”

Eliot slid quietly down the rope and landed softly on the elevator, crouching by the access hatch. He looked up and said, “The question was, ‘What would I do if I found myself alone with a guy like Conrad?’ ”

And he lifted the hatch and disappeared into the penthouse.

Parker stared after him, brow knitted, wondering what her answer would be. Then the words came back to her. “Cut off the head and the heart will stop beating. Every time.” Question asked, and answered.

**26**

Methos stepped out of the elevator, brandishing the shotgun, wearing the badge that MacLeod had just awarded him for not shooting anyone, including Eliot. The corridor was empty in both directions. “There’s a new sheriff in town,” he intoned, breathing on his new badge and shinying it up. “See, MacLeod, the streets are cleared, ready for a showdown. Just like the OK corral.”

“Which side are we on?” MacLeod asked.

“There were sides?” Methos held the shotgun ready as he checked a utility room.

MacLeod pointed down the corridor. “Horton’s apartment is thataway.”

“Get along little...okay, I guess calling you a dogie is pushing the vernacular a little too far.” Methos settled down as they moved down the hall, and held up his hand as they neared the fire door. “Hear it? A stampede.” He pressed himself into an ice machine alcove just feet behind the door while MacLeod slipped ahead into the hallway around the corner.

The door squeaked as it opened. Methos didn’t look out, he just listened. Squeak. Scritch. Mutter. Step. “Don’t see anyone,” the squad leader said, slightly louder, slightly more confident. One last long screech as the door opened wide, two, three, and Methos leapt out of the ice machine alcove and slammed into the backside of the door, taking the trailing two men in the squad out with one blow.

Surprise achieved. The remaining four men in the hall reacted quickly, turning and trying to space themselves for an attack, but Methos was up and into the face of the closest man with the butt of the shotgun to the forehead. He sank without a sound. 

Still, three had recovered, and started to aim. “Now would be a good time, MacLeod,” Methos said conversationally.

Duster whirling, MacLeod turned the corner and took the legs out from under the leader, finishing with a downward elbow. The second man was barely turning to meet the new threat when MacLeod’s forehand strike poleaxed him. The last man froze, gun wavering between the two threats.

“Your turn,” Methos said politely.

“Be my guest,” MacLeod answered, inspecting his knuckle.

“Be a pleasure,” Methos responded. And the last man in the squad went down for a very long count. They divested the squad of their arms, discarding the least useful or interesting into the laundry chute. The bodies were piled neatly in the stairwell.

“Does it seem they don’t make henchmen the way they used to?” MacLeod asked as they continued down the corridor.

“They don’t make anything the way they used to,” Methos lamented. He was crabwalking sideways so he could keep an eye on their backtrail and any side passages they passed. Every once in a while he’d touch MacLeod’s shoulder. For balance. “Except me. I’m the way they used to make them.”

“I’ll have to remember that the next time I’m on the make.” Duncan darted forward and checked a cross corridor before crossing.

“That’s a terrible joke, even for a sheepish Scot,” Methos accused. “I ought to make you read “The Wit and Wisdom of Titus Andronicus” just for that.”

“Wasn’t that a Shakespearian tragedy?” MacLeod asked as they both checked their weapons before turning the last corner to the approach to Apartment 1206.

“Sure, now it is,” Methos agreed. His smile fled as a shot rang out from just beyond the door ahead. “Joe...”

MacLeod was already in full stride, his shoulder hitting the door like a freight train.

**27**

Nate watched the rain sheeting across the sliding door window until he couldn’t stand it any longer. Or maybe it was the third iteration of _Stars and Stripes Forever_ that finally got to him. He stood and walked over to the turntable and switched it off. Carefully lifting up the record, he turned and faced the man with the broken nose. “We’re bringing Joe in. No more of this.”

Broken Nose smiled, then grimaced as his nose pulled out of shape. “Conrad is the only one who gets to say ‘No more.’ ”

“Isn’t that undemocratic?” Nate jeered.

“Isn’t everything?” Broken Nose said cynically. “I haven’t seen an unjiggered democratic election since my high school class voted to go to Disneyworld for spring break. And I’m not sure about that one. In fact, I voted for Fort Lauderdale.”

“You sound like you know from experience. Lifted a few ballot boxes in your day?” Nate asked, not sure he really wanted the answer.

“Why do the heavy lifting when Conrad’s IT geeks just steal the spreadsheets off the web and change the numbers?” Busted Lip said philosophically. “Vote rigging is boring nowadays. No artistry.”

Nate was sure, now. He really didn’t want to know that answer.

“Now, let’s find a new record,” Broken Nose told Nate firmly. “What about Lawrence Welk? I haven’t heard him in a while.”

Nate absolutely, positively drew the line at Lawrence Welk. “I’m bringing him in,” he insisted, using the Souza record to hide his actions. He surreptitiously drew the Beretta and hid it behind his back. The gun felt heavy and cold in his hand. “If Joe dies of exposure, Conrad loses a lot of valuable information.”

Broken Nose waved that argument off. “Everything is on the web, now. Everything. People are too high maintenance to keep around forever.”

“Whoops, newsflash,” Busted Lip interrupted. “Word from Conrad. And guess what? We are bringing him in. Rolling him up. Shutting him down.”

“And putting him away. Sounds like another trip to the basement. Or two.” Broken Nose peered out into the gloom. “Looks like just in time, too. Our buddy got himself loose out there. How do you think he did that?” The two kidnappers looked at each other, then turned as one to Nate.

“I’m betting he knows.”

“I’m betting you’re right.”

“Now wait a minute, guys,” Nate placated, “I was the one who stopped his escape, you remember?”

That brought a round of snickers. Then Broken Nose checked the balcony again, and got serious. “He’s standing up. And near the edge. He’s not supposed to do that. We have to wrap this up. Clean. Down on the sidewalk is messy.”

“Did he just flip us the bird?” Busted Lip said, outraged. Nate checked. Yes. Joe had quite large and expressive fingers.

They rose and passed within arm’s reach of Nate, intent on the balcony, drawing their weapons.

Nate brought the long playing Souza record around in a wide arc, catching Busted Lip almost square on the mouth again. With a howl, he stumbled back. 

Swinging the Beretta around, Nate tried to catch Broken Nose on the broken nose, but his reactions were quicker, and he blocked with his own pistol. The impact jarred the Beretta from Nate’s hand, and the precision mechanism inside made an imprecise decision. The gun went off.

The sliding glass door shattered into ten thousand sparkling shards. For one brief terrible moment Nate saw Joe’s shocked face, and heard a startled warning. 

“Look out!” Joe yelled as he tumbled backward toward the railing.

Toward the railing, and over.

**28**

Amanda groaned, rolled over, and nearly fell off a tiny hedge into nearly 200 feet of space. She only had herself to blame. She knew Parker’s estimations were young and optimistic, not optimum. At least she had expired far enough away from Parker that they could forego inconvenient explanations about mortals and Immortals. 

Amanda stifled a giggle. It would almost be worth it, just to see Joe try to recruit Parker as a Watcher. Almost.

There was really no need to be quiet. The big bass beat of the drum pounded through the concrete floor of the balcony above 1206. The scientists at Seacouver U. could probably detect it on their seismographs. Amanda gathered her chute, rigged a new anchor point and reeled in her line. No Parker on the skyline above -- and no body below. Parker had completed her crossing. It was such a pleasure to find a willing and talented apprentice in these benighted days.

The music ceased. Her ears still roared with the afterbeat. “Joe?” she called out softly. “Can you hear me?” It would be a miracle if he could hear a bomb going off after that assault, Amanda worried. When the job was over, Amanda planned to deduct that little bit extra from Conrad’s bill. With interest.

Amanda checked her watch, and frowned. She had lost more time dead than she had realized. “Alec?” she tested. Nothing. Maybe the impact had cracked more than her skull. She abandoned speculating about the other teams. Joe first, then they would worry about the rest.

Amanda locked in her harness, and climbed over the parapet on the shadowed corner away from the main street. There was more activity in the avenue than she liked--the manhole cover explosion had attracted a lot of attention from the police, fire and utility companies. Was that a bomb squad? Someone had been calling all cars. Maybe Hardison. It should be easy to slip everyone out in the confusion. Joe would be hardest. He stood out in a crowd.

She paused, thinking how best to warn Joe she was coming. With a little wardrobe adjustment...there. With a flip of her wrist, her emerald green garter sailed down into the nearest corner of the 12th floor balcony, right next to her rope.

“A token from my Lady Faire?” came a rumbling response from below. Maybe a little hoarse, and just a bit strained, but unmistakeably, absolutely Joe. She slid down the line so her body barely cleared the parapet, relying on the weather and her black body suit to conceal her movements from watchers within.

“Will you wear my token, fair sir?” she responded with a smile. It faltered only a little when she focussed on his fraying condition. Exposure was taking it’s toll. He was clearly miserably cold. There was a lump on his temple and he worked his hands as if they pained him. But he edged over, inch by inch, and carefully drew the garter into his hands and then over his sleeve. His smile lit the night.

“There’s two button men,” Joe warned, nodding at the apartment, moving his lips no more than necessary. “And there’s a third guy, Nate Ford, who I can’t vouch for. He’s been screwing with me. I don’t think he’s made up his mind who he’s backing, yet. He might just like playing games.”

“Parker’s boss. She says he’s tricky. He can’t help it.” Amanda suppressed a sound of dismay as Joe eased into a cold puddle while trying to get closer to her.

“Tricky is a nice way to put it. I have a bone to pick with that guy. Who’s Parker?”

“My new protegé. I can’t wait til you meet her. Can you get this harness on without being noticed?” Amanda asked, tossing the equipment near his hand.

He pulled it into concealment near his hip and stared into the room. “Maybe. We’ll see. They’re picking out more music, so get ready for something nasty.” Without further delay, Joe pushed his hands against the wall behind him and battled gravity and bad angles to force himself to his feet. Abandoning caution, Amanda skipped around the parapet and reached over to help tug him erect, using him as a shield for searching eyes.

“Wrap it around there, yes. And under there. Enough room? We don’t want it to pinch _there._ Clip it...here, let me do that, your hands are freezing...then we just have to tie you in...Joe?”

“I think somebody noticed,” Joe said aridly, making an elegantly rude gesture for the benefit of their audience. “It looks like your friend’s boss decided to choose sides. Watch it. Gun.”

“Jump, Joe.”

“What? No, wait, you were going to pull me up, right?”

“Joe. Trust me. Jump.”

“You know I’m too old for this shit,” Joe complained, but he backed up toward the corner of the wall.

“I know very well that you are _not_ too old for anything I can conjure, Joe.”

“Oh. Well. When you put it that way...I guess I’ll jump. But I think ol’ Nate in there may need your help more than me,” he delayed. “Hey! Watch it!” Amanda had grabbed him from behind, ripping his breast pocket in the process before getting a good grip. 

Joe’s protest was interrupted by the crack of an unsilenced automatic. Glass showered the balcony. “Look out!” he belatedly added. Then Amanda lifted him up and hauled him into space.

The rope whizzed through the locking carabiners making up the belay as they fell in a semi-controlled rappel. Joe held the knot above his harness with a deathgrip while Amanda slowly brought their speed under control. They came to an elegant and stately halt just a foot from the ground. Amanda quickly unclipped the gear and peeled Joe’s frozen hands from the rope, patting him down to make sure he was intact and uninjured.

Then she faced him, tapping him squarely in the chest to get his full attention. “The next time I say ‘jump’,” she said severely, “You jump!”

**29**

The door to 1206 now comprised of a few tufts of wood swinging gently on the hinges. Methos followed MacLeod into the room with just a bit more caution, and a bit less mayhem. He let MacLeod deal with the pile of bodies on the floor while he searched the corners for lurkers. And weapons. And Joe.

Three lurkers, five weapons. The balcony was empty. They were too late.

“No Joe.” MacLeod voiced his fears as he picked himself off the floor, shedding pieces of the door. “Which one is Nate, do you think?”

One of the bodies groaned, and raised a weak hand. “Here.”

MacLeod hauled him up and dusted him off. “Come on, man. And Joe?”

Nate pointed at the balcony. “There.” There was an edge of misery and horror to his voice that belied his short response. 

Methos absently picked at the marshal’s badge until it came loose, and shoved it in his pocket.

“Why did Conrad do this?” MacLeod was questioning Nate, trying to make sense of the situation.

“Conrad can wait,” Methos said hollowly. “There’s no hurry, now. I’ll find him eventually.” Slowly, he made his way to the balcony, his feet crunching in the scattered glass, looking for some hint of what had befallen Joe. There was his cane. Methos picked it up, smoothing off the beaded rainwater.

Zip ties littered the allweather carpet. Bits of shredded cloth. The sim card to a phone. Methos pocketed the last. Joe’s last known words, frozen in digital space. Methos would put it on his pyre.

MacLeod was still questioning Nate. Methos let the words wash away in the rain. It was time. He gripped the parapet, and leaned out, looking out before looking down. There were arrangements to be made.

He expected the gathering emergency personnel, and the whirling lights, and the rescue bus. But they were all in the wrong place. They were huddled at the corner of the far side of the building. The concrete below Horton’s apartment was clear, except for a pile of rope.

Climbing rope. Amanda always retired her ropes after they were strained in a hard job, though usually not so close to the scene of the crime. She must have had her hands full. Methos resolved on the spot to buy her a lifetime supply of nylon gear. Or maybe he would buy the company and give it to her for her birthday.

“MacLeod,” Methos called out. “Amanda has been and gone. We need to get out of here.” He tried to keep his voice level, but something in his tone must have communicated his unproven hope.

MacLeod stood tall and proud, shedding an invisible weight. “We’ll share a toast tonight, yet,” he said, offering his shoulder to Nathan Ford.

“I never saw her. I never saw a thing. And I was watching.” Nate stared back at the balcony. “Is Amanda that good?”

“Amanda’s that good,” MacLeod confirmed. “You can give her your own toast when we get out of here.”

“Here, here,” Nate offered, recovering his aplomb. As he passed the table, he snagged the Tyrconnell. “No use delaying the celebration.”.

Out on the deck, Methos continued to spy on the activities in the street when a voice came down from on high. “PSSsst! Hey, Adam!” Methos crouched and half drew his knife, before realizing who was speaking.

“Eliot?” Methos cast around, finally looking straight up toward the roof, where Eliot waved.

“Meet you at the elevator!” Eliot called down. “Hardison will bring us all down. Conrad’s no longer a factor. We’re done here.” And he disappeared.

Methos looked from the penthouse roof above, to the corner, to the huddled shape surrounded by emergency workers on the sidewalk. Eliot had answered his question.

“Yes. We’re done here.”

**30**

Methos huddled in the corner of the elevator with MacLeod, steadfastly keeping their backs to the wall as their new allies reunited with their leader. The ride down the lift was total chaos. Parker appeared out of the hatch as they entered, and slithered down to hug Nathan Ford and stuff a much-abused earbud into his ear. He clung to it like his last hope.

Hardison was apparently regaling his people over their network with the challenges and pitfalls of taking over a whole building with a keyboard and an Olympian complex. They were going to have quite a lively discussion in the very near future about file safety.

Eliot leaned in the opposite corner, a smile playing on his lips as he watched his teammates, apparently quite happy to be earbudless. Methos slid over just far enough to whisper, “Conrad?”

“Hardison found some footage. He piped it up to the penthouse. Conrad and I got to discuss it,” he answered, adding a seeming non sequitur. “You know how organizations like these usually have bodies in the basement, as it were?”

Methos nodded carefully. He was familiar with the tradition. The term, too.

“Well, it turns out that the water main burst outside, and washed out some of the foundations down below the main floors. Guess what the firemen and water company and building inspectors found? Bodies. In the basement.”

“Imagine that,” Methos commented, wondering if the bodies were James’, or Conrad’s legacy. Probably both. “No doubt Mr. Conrad’s guilty conscience got the better of him.”

“No doubt,” Eliot agreed, and the elevator doors opened, and they moved on.

**31**

It turned out that neither Joe nor Nate had to be tied to the roof of the van in order to get everyone home. Methos, in fact, was able to boldly walk out of the lobby through the melee of legitimate first responders, footloose CIA agents trying to deny their existence and late night St. Patrick Day revelers attracted by the lights. Since the bars were just closing uptown, that meant a lot of revelers. He simply flashed his pocketed Air Marshal badge, turned off the alarm, slipped into his car (after removing the burned up wick from the gas tank) and drove it away.

Just outside the perimeter, Methos pulled up next to a nondescript black van, and picked up MacLeod, who had had to make sure with his own eyes that Joe was safe and intact. Methos himself craned for a glimpse through the open side of the van, and saw Joe happily ensconced between Amanda and Parker. Amanda already had him peeled out of his wet shirt and stuffed into MacLeod’s swiftly donated sweater. Methos managed to toss his own pullover in to Joe for a second layer just before Amanda offered her catsuit.

Still, as they parted, Amanda was jokingly threatening to move further south. Mostly joking. MacLeod and Methos both hesitated and looked at each other in alarm at the last minute as they closed the van door, when Parker sang out, “Ohhh, 69, now I get it!”

Both vehicles managed to make their all too sober way back to the bar without being stopped for either indecent exposure or weapons violations. It being St. Patrick’s Day, the authorities already had their hands full.

When they arrived at the bar, Methos unlocked the door (Joe had no idea where his coat or keys had ended up.) Joe did the honors, opening his door wide, welcoming his new friends and old with a heart-felt “Cead Mile Failte -- a hundred thousand welcomes.” Amanda rewarded the welcome with a stirring kiss, and just as ceremoniously rolled her green garter up his sleeve to adorn his arm as a reward for bravery.

And then, after ushering everyone in, and locking the door and turning off the (hot, pink) Joe’s bar sign, Joe turned and entered his domain. And saw what was left of his dancefloor. MacLeod and Eliot stood before a pile of tumbled chairs and tables, practically scuffing their feet in guilt.

“What did you do to my bar?” Joe asked, unnaturally calm.

Methos winced, and stood up in MacLeod’s defense, “It was a little misunderstanding, Joe.”

“A misunderstanding?” Joe asked, still quite calm, now zeroing all his focus on Methos.

Methos skipped back, well out of reach. “MacLeod’s misunderstanding,” he backtracked, throwing the Highlander to the wolf. “The stage is still okay,” he added virtuously. “I made sure of that.”

“The stage is okay,” Joe reflected. “And the bar?”

“The bar is fine!” Methos said quickly. “MacLeod and Eliot wouldn’t touch the bar. Would you?”

“No, no, we wouldn’t hurt the bar,” MacLeod and Eliot were quick to agree, and even quicker to start hauling tables and chairs upright (or semi-upright) and back to their former positions, if not their former glory.

“As long as the bar is fine...well...then...” Joe shook his head sadly, then paused for effect, before breaking out into a sunny grin. “What are we waiting for? Drinks are on the house. What are a couple of broken bar stools among friends?” Before Methos could manage to shortstop Joe and get him out of the rest of his wet gear, he wiled his way behind the bar to serve (and memorize) first and favorite drinks for all. In the process, he graciously thanked each of his rescuers, matching names to faces, drinks and skill sets.

“The master at work. I think Joe just learned more about our new buddies in five minutes than we did during the whole mission,” Methos said wryly to MacLeod as they finished piling the last of the broken chairs by the entry.

Nathan Ford, perched on the very end of the bar, overheard. “Joe is very good at what he does. What does he do, exactly?” The Tyrconnell still stood at Nate’s elbow, like a talisman. Or an albatross.

MacLeod picked that time to wave at Amanda and gracefully drift away, leaving Methos to take or leave the question. “That depends on who you ask. Bartender. Book lover. Bluesman. I see him as a bard. One of the finest I’ve met in a thousand years. But you shouldn’t ask me. You should ask him,” Methos nodded toward the man in question.

Joe was drifting down the bar towards them as if he could sense trouble from their stances alone. He had already poured another draft for Methos, the silent gesture and smile worth more than the words Methos hoarded in a dozen dead languages. But the smile disappeared when he finally stopped before Nathan Ford. 

“It’s a Saint’s day and a celebration, and a time to put aside quarrels, but I won’t have you drinking Horton’s leavings under my roof. What will you have?” he asked, the quiet challenge rolling down the bar until all conversation stopped. Even Parker fell silent.

They stared each other down until Methos experienced a trickle of worry. If he hadn’t been standing so close to Nathan, he would have missed the tiniest wink that drooped in Joe Dawson’s left eye, meant only for a distant Irish kinsman. Galvanized, Nate swept the glass he’d been nursing away, capped the bottle and tossed it into the recyclable bin with a great clatter. “I believe you may serve Jamesons?” he asked with great dignity.

“I believe a drinkable portion remains,” Joe answered in kind, pouring them each a shot and looking him square in the eye.

“This feels like an outtake from ‘The Quiet Man’, Methos jeered, releasing the tension all the way down the bar. He lifted his own beer. “Daws abo’, Joe.”

“Tourjours prepice,” Joe returned with a glint in his eye. He leaned forward on the bar, letting it take some of his weight, and beckoned Methos and Nate closer. “I think after I talked a little with your people, I’ve figured out why you came here, Nate. We share a common difficulty -- too many other people, some of them not very nice, want to know more about us. Am I on the right track?”

“Mr. Conrad of the 206 is no longer with us,” Nate pointed out, digging in his heels.

“Which leaves another 205 Dustmen running around wondering what happened,” Joe said, with a hint of weariness.

Nate stayed very still. Methos jumped in to help him, purely out of the goodness of his heart. “I think you’re definitely on the right track, Joe. Nate here just wants to protect his people. He just doesn’t know that you have certain limitations on what you can reveal. Proprietary limitations.”

“In other words, you’re just the middleman,” Nate said, with a touch of independent satisfaction.

“That’s another way of putting it,” Joe agreed, a little too readily.

Methos’ head went up, and he beckoned to Hardison. “Mr. Hardison, come over here for a minute, please, and settle something for us?”

“Adam, do you think that’s wise?” Joe asked, then answered himself. “No. What am I saying. You don’t do wise. Okay.” Joe started over. “How about this. Mr. Hardison? We have a file security problem. Too many security people have our files. Adam here, has a blunt force solution. When the wrong people find a file, Adam here can make it disappear. Do you share an interest in this problem?”

Hardison’s eyes lit up. “Do I share an interest? Does the Pope.... Oh, wait. Nate? Do we share an interest in this problem?” Hardison’s eyes were molten with the interest sharing possibilities.

“Yes, yes, yes, we share interest,” Nate’s reserve collapsed. “Go on, go on, share away to your heart’s content. Go. Play nice.”

Joe just laughed. “I guess we have a deal. Proprietary limitations, shared interests.” He held out his hand.

Nate nodded, all business, and shook Joe’s hand, both lifting their glasses to seal the deal. “I have one question, though,” he added as they put down their glasses. “You never asked me why I turned on you in the panic room.”

“I worked it out,” Joe said neutrally. “The rescue had to move fast, before Conrad could get organized. I had to be in one particular place, at one particular time.”

“No hard feelings?” Nate asked, tentatively.

“I won’t send you Christmas cards if you don’t send me a birthday present.”

“Deal,” Nate replied, with grudging respect, and well-concealed relief.

Methos synched phone contacts with Hardison, but lingered near the bar when he saw Parker drift down the bar. She leaned in next to Nate, while staring with great interest at Joe. A healthy cocktail on top of an active night without food had ignited her fuse. “Hey Nate, did you know that Joe is a Watcher?” she asked. “Watcher. Watcherzz. He likes to Watch!”

Joe dropped his head in his hand and shook his head, before lifting it and bellowing, “Amanda!”

Nate just looked around, confused. “What the hell’s a Watcher?”

It took the combined efforts of Methos, MacLeod and Amanda to talk Joe down from the ceiling and out from behind the bar to settle at a slightly tilting table near the stage as well as the best heater in the room. He finally allowed himself to be cozened and fed.

“How is he doing?” MacLeod asked Methos in an undertone.

“A sad case of shock,” Methos funereally intoned.

“From the ordeal?” MacLeod pressed, clearly ready to haul Joe out of the bar to the nearest trauma facility.

“From the condition of his dance floor, you dolt.” Methos grinned, letting MacLeod off the hook. “Joe isn’t made of sugar. He won’t melt in a little rain.”

Nevertheless, MacLeod made corned beef sandwiches and cabbage soup for all, mellowing the adrenaline provided by the job and the fickle energy provided by the drink. Joe even let Methos fetch bandaids, though he insisted on applying them himself, a bit crookedly, but to rakish effect.

Eliot had been surveying the stage with a certain longing look. Joe waved his hand without a word being spoken. “If you play, find something that fits your hand.”

“You play?” Eliot asked.

“I dabble,” Joe allowed.

They played old songs and young, ribald and sentimental, breaking to tell tall tales and stories upon one another, sharing their laughter, well into the night. 

Methos and MacLeod sat together in the circle that formed, sipping drafts slowly, going light, trading runs to the bar to serve the others. Their ulterior motive was to keep their eye on Joe. They made sure that Dawson often rested his hands, and didn’t force his voice. They watched his whiskey intake and kept him well fed and watered.

They were driving Joe around the bend. He was clearly well aware of their scrutiny. He was also bound and determined to uphold the honor of the Dawsons on this St. Patrick Day’s Night.

“He may keep going on through til dawn,” MacLeod murmured.

“Dawn’s nearly here. Maybe he doesn’t want to sleep,” Methos said, just as softly. “However, I think there’s an alternative,” he added, nodding to Amanda, with just a touch of conspiracy. “Amanda, did you tell Joe about how you cracked his computer? You promised,” he teased.

“Snitch,” Amanda declared. “Tattler. Don’t listen to him, Joe. I just...well...figured out your password. On the computer in your office. Just a little bit. I wouldn’t abuse it. You know that.” Then she batted her eyelashes at Methos. “Spoilsport.”

“Awkward,” Parker spoke into her cocktail.

Caught off guard in mid-party mode, among guests, Joe had no outlet for the parade of reactions that passed through his mind. Methos was just a bit afraid they had gone too far. But Joe was a professional, on stage and off, and he recovered, if a bit unsteadily, saying “It’s...fine. Amanda. I’ll take care of it. And speaking of the the office, I’d better make sure everything was put away.”

“Oh, we put away everything just the way it was,” Parker promised. “We even put the safe number back...”

“Amanda!” Joe interrupted desperately, already fleeing to the office. “I need to talk to you!”

“Sure, Joe,” Amanda said demurely, sending a wide wink to Methos and MacLeod, only partly lost on the rest of the audience.

**32**

Joe made short work of surveying the office, knowing he’d probably never know what mischief Amanda (and now Parker?) had really gotten up to. Dwelling on the possibilities would be very bad for his blood pressure.

Joe stretched and rolled his shoulders before reaching down to open the safe. He reminded himself that he should call Bob the backup bartender in the morning and tell him he was back, just unexpectedly called away on yet another late night business trip.

The safe swung open, and he narrowed his eyes. “Amanda. What’s this?” he asked, gingerly taking out a green-beribboned box with a decided gurgle.

Amanda wrapped herself around his shoulders much as she had during the long rappel, and peeked over his shoulder. “That,” she said, plucking the green ribbon loose with a tantalizing pull, “That is your present. From Galway. By way of Andorra. You’d love Andorra, by the way. We should go there sometime.”

“Andorra. Right,” Joe replied, distracted by a pair of fingernails tracing his spine. Too distracted to open the box.

Amanda opened it for him, working the seam while she leaned her chin into his broad shoulder. “Do you like it?”

The bottle of Persse's Galway Whiskey, from one of the last true and undisputed native distilleries on Nun’s Island, lay in the deeply cushioned box. Joe was stunned speechless, managing only, “...Yes?” 

Then he heard a door slam in the distance, and realized he was abandoning his duty as a host. “I...we...that is, we should show the others,” he said, torn by the magnanimity of the gift and the need to lock it safely away with highest respect, battling the generous and just as powerful need to share.

“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” Amanda said sadly. “It’s motel-thirty, as you always say. Time to go. Time for guests to go home. Time for you to go up to that fine big empty bed of yours.”

“Time to go,” Joe echoed, paying more attention to Amanda’s fingers playing with the garter around his arm than her words.

Amanda curled around Joe’s shoulders, her body heat radiating welcome and warmth. “You aren’t going to send me out in the cold, are you, Joe?”

“No. No. I wouldn’t do that. It’s cold outside. It’s warm. In here.”

“After all, I opened your present for you.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.”

Amanda beamed, and guided his fingers to the hidden catches that held together the seams of her suit. “Now you get to open mine.”

**33**

“It’s almost sunrise,” Methos mentioned with some real reluctance as Joe and Amanda disappeared in the back. He didn’t expect them back anytime soon. Unless 12 hours was ‘soon.’

There was a general groan of protest, regret and weariness. “Lightweights,” Nate growled from the corner.

“Do you have a place to stay?” Methos asked.. “MacLeod and I can drive you to your hotel. Or you can crash here. The stage isn’t bad with a bar stool as a pillow,” he offered. “I found that out after I tangled with some Jaegermeister and Red Bull. Just say no, I say, to Jaegermeister and Red Bull.”

Uniformly, the party decided they would pass on the stage.

So Methos ended the night of St. Patrick’s Day, still unnaturally sober and still driving a devil-may-care MacLeod around in the rain. He was surprised to find that he was also absurdly happy to tease and be teased by his friends. It was illogical, and unconscionable, and certainly not footnoted in any of his personal survival manuals. But it was so.

 

**Finis**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to various internet searches, a bottle of Persse’s Galway Whiskey from the Nun’s Island Distillery, thought to be the last known, was sold at auction in 2005. There are rumors of others surfacing from attics and cellars since then. In 2010, Arkwrights Whisky and Wines, a distributor based in Wiltshire, England, was offering an authenticated bottle of Persse’s 25 year Old Pure Pot Still Whiskey, (which is now actually over 100 years old) for £100,000, or a little over $160,000.


End file.
